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If his life has shown a merit 
Give him credit while he lives, 

Nor await the scanty record 

Which the moss-dimmed tombstone gives. 



-L. H. Beal. 











POEMS 




B^i 


r 


L. 


H. 


BEAL 

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WITH A 


FEW CHOICE SELECTIONS 


B\ 


r OTHER 


AUTHORS 




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AUBURN. MAINE 

Merrill & Webber Company, 
1909 










n> 3 



T5 3 



Copyrighted 1910 

BY 

L. H. BEAL 



(gCI.A253761 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Self-Righteous Deacon, 11 

Two Gospel Gladiators, 12 

What's the Matter with Old Uncle Sara? 13 

The Legislator 's Meditation, 15 

It Is a "Lie," 17 

The Song of the Toiler, 19 

'Tis Owned a Truth, but Lived a Lie, 21 

Alphonse and Angelina, 22 

A Poet's Effusion, 23 

Deacon Pharisee, 24 

The "•Scab" Shoe Boss, 26 

Old Pod Auger Days,— Selected, 28 

An Appeal to J. P. Morgan,— J. P. Beal, 30 

Meditation, 32 

To M. G. H., 33 

The Flirt, 33 

Was It a Dream? 35 

The Bashful Lover, 37 

Sequel to the Bashful Lover, 38 

The New Ulster, 40 

That Old Gray Fox, 41 

The Shyster Lawyer's Prayer, 43 

The Doctor 's Prescription, 45 

The Student 's Vacation, 45 

Getting Rich on What They Owe, 47 

The Gospel Tramp, 49 

Shall Women Vote? 50 

His Uncle's Nephew, 51 

Centennial Poem, 52 

The Politician, 55 

Latest Version of Mary's Little Lamb, 57 

For the Freeman and Visitor, — E. H., 58 

Benson to His Friends on Earth, 59 

The Calf Path,— Sam Walter Foss, 61 

An Object Lesson, 63 



Beulah Hill's Prophet Baby, 65 

The Creator's Works, — Joseph Addison, 70 

Reply to L. H. B., 71 

Plain Old Kitchen Chap,— Holman F. Day, 73 

Vision of Booming Times, 76 

The Poet Critic, 79 

Paths to Fame, 79 

A Parable, 81 

A Prize Stanza, 83 

Why Can't We Agree? 84 

"Murder! Murder?" 85 

An Extempo Effusion, 87 

Another View of Shiloh, 88 

The ' ' Breechy ' ' Cow 's First Wire Fence. 100 

Trustee for God. 102 

O, Restrain Not the Tear, — L. C. Bateman, 104 

"Mother's Picture," — L. E. Beal, 106 

Rock Me to Sleep, — Mrs. Elizabeth Akers Allen, 107 

Bryanism from the G. O. P. 's Point of View, 108 

The City Reporter and the Rustic Rhymster, 111 

An Apology to a Lady Reporter, 113 

Our Christmas Tree, 114 

The Boneless Fish, 116 

My New Vear Resolutions, 119 

Ham Brooks, 121 

More New Vear 's Resolutions, — J. P. Beal, 127 

A Dyspeptic Dream, 129 

The Editor Declines, 130 

Betsy Merrill, 132 

The Pauper Seer of Lewiston, 134 

My First " Go-to-Meeting" Shoes. 136 

Hogsback Mountain, 139 

The Chronic Scolder, 141 

The Pinchback Deacon, 144 

Liberty. 145 

Reminiscences of South Durham School Days, 146 

Uncle Peter's R. F. D., 151 

Christmas Eve Reflections, 153 

The Lay of the Broomstick Cane, 151 

The Shilohized Reporter, 157 

A Thanksgiving Dinner, 158 

My Early Schooldays, 159 

Griffin 's Spring, 164 

Epigrams on "Elijah in Rhyme, 165 



The Agnostic Creed, — Selected, 170 

The Anniversary, 173 

The Author's Birthday Celebration, 175 

My Early History, 176 

The River of Time,— -S. J. L. M., 181 

The Lawrence Catastrophy, 181 

Reflections, 184 

The Shower of July 27, 1891, 186 

My Faith, 188 

Amenomania, or Love Run Mad, 188 

The Miser,— Selected, 190 

The Itinerant Sawmill, 190 

The Reason He Didn't Reply, 193 

Immortality, — Selected, 193 

Among the Lost, 194 

A Toiler's Rhyme on the Trust Question, 196 

Crumbs of Thought, 198 

The Curbstone Politician, 200 

Think-So-Pathy, 203 

Teddy's Multi-Millionaire, 204 

An Ingenious Cento, 205 

My Lady Love, 205 

Conscience and Future Judgment, — Selected, 206 

Sad Case of ' ' Obsession, ' ' 208 

Jim Becomes a Scientist, — J. P. Beal, 211 

Dissimulation, 213 

Tho Flirt, 214 
The Populist Stops His Gold Standard Paper Thusly, 215 

Fashion, 216 

The Scandalmonger, 217 

Scene in a Pawnshop, 218 

To My Brother, Honest Jim, 219 

Sandford's Sandy Summit, — J. P. Beal, 222 

The Doctor and His Twin Daughters, 223 



j INTRODUCTORY g 

Centuries ago, perhaps ages, the primitive man 
had no language to convey his thoughts. He could 
only use gestures and motions for this purpose. As 
time advanced he learned to use vocal sounds for 
the same purpose and still later on, many centuries 
it must have been, he learned to make marks on 
bark, a certain mark standing for a certain vocal 
sound. In this manner language was developed. 
A written alphabet was developed, at first contain- 
ing but few letters. As civilization advanced more 
letters were added till our present number became 
established, and these are made to convey every 
thought which the human is capable of. 

But I wish to say here and now that the alphabet 
which we are compelled to use has only about one- 
half as many letters as there are vocal sounds used. 
The so-called vowels are made to do double and 
thribble work, as well as some consonants. Hence 
comes the barbarous torture of learning to spell and 
pronounce correctly. There has been an active en- 
deavor of late to reform in this matter, but there is 
as yet but little progress in this direction. 

We find there are "standpatters" in literature as 
well as in politics and religion, for: 

"Faith, fanatic faith, once wedded fast 
To some dear falsehood hugs it to the last," 
"Faith loves to lean on Time's destroying arm 
And Age like Distance lends a double charm." 



INTRODUCTION. 7 

Now, if it is desired to convey a certain fact, 
whether by voice or pen, with desirable results, it is 
wise to use diplomacy, to consider how, when, where 
and to whom. This involves the arts of posture, 
mien, voice, accent, modulation, etc. 

Such is the weakness of human nature, a plain 
statement of .a thing will make very little impression 
on the multitude. 

To illustrate, let us state the same thing twice, 
but in different moods and different manner, and by 
different persons. 

First Way 

While Smith was plowin' t'other day, 
Who'd come along but old Tom Gray. 
He was a harmless sort o' crank, 
Who never chewed, nor smoked, nor drank ; 
Said he was tired to death, almost, 
And leaned up 'gainst the graveyard post. 
Such moody spells he'd have at times 
And make such curi's sort o' rhymes. 
The bell then sounded from the dome 
And Smith unhitched and started home. 
The cows came 'long, but rather slow, 
A-bellerin' for their calves, yo' know. 

— Beat. 
Second Way 

The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ; 

The plowman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. ' ' 

— Thomas Gray. 



8 INTRODUCTION. 

Now, nobody would remember the story as first told, 
but the way Mr. Gray has told it has made him im- 
mortal, and rightly so, for his poem, of which I quote 
the first verse, is one of the masterpieces in English 
literature. Hence, many who imagine they have a 
message for the world resort to "numbers" to get a 
hearing and perhaps, incidently, a little fame and 
profit. A few succeed while many fall by the way. 

The pedantic antiquarian has always trigged the 
wheels of Progress, lest its speed be too great for the 
safety of Earth's revolution. In literary matters 
he likes to delve in ancient literary sepulchry. He 
loves to search for the primal "roots" of language 
and force their primal meanings and spelling on a 
long suffering and rebellious civilization. 

In my mind's eye I seem to see 
The antiquarian at his tree, 
Digging for "roots" beneath his feet. 
To learn if the fruit be sour or sweet. 

If simple age so sacred be, 
To Sun and Stars, then, bend the knee; 
But this frenzied love for the long dead past 
Is met by the modern Iconoclast. 

Says Longfellow, in his beautiful ' ' Psalm of Life ' ' : 

"Let the dead Past bury its dead; 
Act, act in the living present, 
Heart within and God o'erhead. " 

As the reader will note, I have given considerable 
space to criticise Sandford's claims as a Divine Rev- 
elator. I have done it with earnest zeal, giving or 



INTRODUCTION. y 

asking no quarter. Personally, Sandford is a gentle- 
man, but he reminds me of a character in Byron's 
"Don Juan," where he describes Don Juan's affin- 
ity's father — a Grecian pirate captain — : as "as mild 
a mannered man as ever cut a throat or scuttled a 
ship." 

The lines I have written in this book were written 
at random, as I happened to be in the mood. 

As a whole, they express my views on passing events 
in a plain, easy reading style. The question, whether 
they possess any merit, I will submit to the reader. 
I shall feel amply rewarded if I only amuse him. 



MYSELF. 

Ere I'm summoned to finish Life's labors 
And yield to dumb Future's control, 

I would tell to my kindred and neighbors 
The "faith" that lies deep in my soul. 

I am what you may call an agnostic, 
So many the things I don't know, 

And inclined to the be humorously caustic 
On creeds of the dead long ago. 

I believe what the poet has told us : 
"All things are but parts of a whole," 

And the laws of Eternity mould us, 
In vain we resist its control. 

Then our noblest and highest ideal, 
Inspiring the truth-seeking mind, 

Is made beneficial and real 

By aiding the cause of mankind. 



10 INTRODUCTION. 

My religion — you may think unhallowed — 
Was taught me from Nature's grand Scroll, 

And its lessons, well studied and followed, 
Would save both the body and soul. 

When religion and reason are blended, 

Unawed by a petrified lore, 
And a dread superstition is ended, 

The devils will haunt us no more. 

I am wearing my life's Autumn Button. 

My winters are seventy and nine. 
Very soon I pass Over — forgotten, 

The record I leave will be mine. 

L. H. Beal. 



POEMS. 1 1 

THE SELF-RIGHTEOUS DEACON. 

A worthy deacon, I'll not name, 
(But still you have him all the same) 

Who gets his living by the tillage 
Of a fine farm just out the village; 

Was sorely vexed town meeting day, 
Because he could not have his way. 

I do not mean to now tell you, 
The deacon swore like sinners do. 

But that his language, I avow, 

Was strong as Scripture would allow. 

The "Article," I'm very sure, 

That troubled him was village sewer. 

I think, said he, 'tis mighty mean, 
To make us keep your gutters clean. 

Our interests are, sir, be it known, 
In drains and gutters of our own. 

And if you're bound to have a sewer, 
With your own cash the thing secure. 

Don't strive to get by public pelf 
What only benefits yourself, 

Nor farmers rate with heathen curs, 
As only fit for scavengers. 

Although the deacon had his say 
The meeting voted 'tother way. 

Some time ago this farmer bought 
With surplus cash, a house and lot; 



12 L. H. BEAL. 

For by his ready calculation 
The place would rise in valuation. 

For many years he's paid the tax, 
But still the house a tenant lacks. 

His village friends at last explain, 
Tis not connected with a drain, 

This ope'd the deacon's eyes a mite, 
And he perceived a marvelous light; 

And as the truth begins to dawn, 
How suddenly he "catches on." 

Town meeting next will hear him sure, 
And every time he'll vote for sewer. 

Self interests are most stubborn facts, 
For which we ready pay the tax. 



TWO GOSPEL GLADIATORS. 

Two gospel poets are at war, 

Their weapon is the quill; 
'Tis all about the Sandfordites, 

Up there on Beulah Hill. 

First, Corbett quotes the gospel creed 

Of this new-fangled sect; 
All put in smooth and flowing verse, 

To heighten the effect. 

Then Beulah 's Fitz with venomed pen, 

Prods him and all his ilk, 
And gives a copy with a pint 

Of Beulah flavored milk. 

— L. H. B., Referee. 



POEMS. 13 

WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH OLD UNCLE 
SAM? 

HOW THE "SPECIE" DOCTORS AGREE. 

[dr. beeciier] 

"Prosperity, I do allege. 
Has brought him to the ragged edge ; 
He's lived so high and worked so little, 
He gets his soup at the public kettle. 
Now let his tongue and brain be quiet, 
While I prescribe a plainer diet : 
Now he must live as toilers oughter, 
On love, reduced with bread and water; 
Let corporations fix his pay 
While working sixteen hours a day. 
While capital their skill controls, 
I take good care of the toilers' souls. 
Although the times are so severe, 
I get but ninety thousand a year." 

[ER. JOHN SHERMAN] 

"Well, I declare," says honest John, 
"Of all the nations 'neath the sun, 
This is the best it shines upon. 
There's nothing in the world the matter. 
But this infernal greenback chatter, — 
With ignorant laborers crazy fight 
Against the lawful and the right. 
I fear some imps from hades sent 
Have fouled the air with discontent 
And stirred up Labor to rebel 
Against its master, Capital. 
We soon had reached the golden gate, 
But for this d d inflation prate." 



14 L. H. BEAL. 

[er. frye] 

''The vital powers show robust action — 
Plainly a case of over-production; 
You've raised so much corn, beef and wheat, 
You're starving now for food to eat; 
Run so much wool and cotton gear, 
You've hardly decent clothes to wear; 
You've built so many houses warm, 
You've naught to shelter from the storm. 
Hear my advice and heed it well, — 
Produce no more to eat or sell; 
But bow your head in humble sense 
And wait the smile of Providence." 
[dr. ding ley] 

" 'Tis evident it's nothing less 
Than lunacy or cussedness; 
These symptoms are so near allied, 
We doctors hardly can decide. 
Whenever doubts arise like these, 
We treat the same for each disease ; 
The danger which excites my fears 
Is this inflation of ideas. 
I would prescribe for such an ill 
No ordinary puke or pill. 
So read the Journal daily through; 
No milder remedy will do. 
This will contract in most of cases 
(Unless you take that sheet of Chase's) 
Your mind to mental specie basis; 
I know no cure our troubles for, 
But resumption or another war." 
[l. h. beal] 

Now all who read can plainly see 
How specie doctors disagree. 



POEMS. 1 5 

THE LEGISLATORS MEDITATION. 

For profit or for justice, which, 
Debate must soon come to a hitch, 

And we must answer. "Yea," or "Nay," 
Or like a coward sneak away. 

In front is Corporation bold 

With the persuasive power of gold, 

While in the rear the Knight is seen 
With cowhide boots and threatening mien ; 

Both shout as we alternate swerve, 
"Choose ye this day whom ye will serve. 

"How can we 'scape the fires so near 
And office save with title clear? 

"Our vote must on the record go, 
Oh, God ! we wish it were not so ; 

"To vote for laws we know are just 
And be content with labors' crust, 

"Or legislate for moneyed classes, 
For liberal fees and railroad passes. 

"Now, who outside this howling crew 
Can tell us what we'd better do? 

Could we but find the golden mean 
And safely pass the gulf between ; 

"These warring factions madly bent 
To cut each other's rate per cent. 



16 L. H. BEAL. 

''For votes or profit, that's the bother, 
To get the one nor lose the other. 

"Though office brings a moral strain 
We'd liKe to have it once again; 

" 'Tis Shakespeare tells us (else 'tis Paul) r 
How conscience makes us cowards all; 

"For when we would in life expand, 
There's nothing l^ke the cash in hand. 

"The views of statesmen must be plastic 
"With conscience more or less elastic; 

"And platforms made before election 
Are changed with more mature reflection; 

"Opinions change with mild persuasion 
' When reason serves the inclination — 

"And oft, like Paul, is politician 
Converted by a dazzling vision. 

"The wise will change with changing light,. 
While fools, 'twill rather dim their sight. 

"And talk of justice as you may, 
The crop of saints is scarce today. 

"Who work for other's good alone 
Fill pauper's graves without a stone; 

"Who would from profit turn away, 
Nor husband for a rainy day, 



POEMS. 17 

* i Provide for self and household well, 
Is sinner more than infidel. 

"This easting bread on watery waste, 
That lazy tramps may get a taste, 

"The politician sadly learns 

Will bring but mighty poor returns; 

"Nor should our motives be abhorred, 
E 'en Christians work for a reward ; 

"While some would chase a phantom crown, 
We like the cash, and want it down. 

"Though moral cranks in wrath include us, 
With frequent compliments to Judas. 

"So here we go in this direction, 
And trust to luck for re-election." 

They will forget when all is o'er 

How mad they were, and how they swore, 

And while they're fed on taffy free, 
They'll ne'er forsake their G. 0. P. 



IT IS A "LIE. 



"The silver dollar is a lie," 
Proclaims our William bold; 

While he is stroked and feasted by 
The worshipers of gold. 



18 L. H. BEAL. 

Our fathers in the law declare 
This coin shall be a dollar; — 

Who say they lie are those who wear 
The coupon clipper's collar. 

'Tis worth but eighty cents, you say, 
Without the statute letter 

Take fiat from the coin away 
We'll go you fifty better. 

Now tell us, William, how 'tis done ; 

'Twill lessen our expense, 
To get a dollar's worth of fun, 

For only eighty cents. 

Your measure is, we plainly see, 
Marked on your gilded collar. 

"Old Shylock is our God, and he 
Makes gold the only dollar." 

The dollar coin, which all we had 
Quite up to seventy-three, 

You call the "dollar of the dad," 
In Bacchanalian glee. 

We slowly learn your cussedness, 
And what you most desire; 

To make the price of labor less, 
The price of money higher. 

You've turned that organ crank so lon{ 
Your music is "inflation," 

Your same old anti-greenback song, 
With silver variation. 



POEMS. 19 

A dollar measured by itself, 

Can ne'er be less or more, 
But if by Shylock's rule of pelf, 

Its value is a score. 

When dollars from themselves shall fly 

'Twill be the day of witches, 
And William can lift William by 

The seat of William's breeches. 



THE SONG OF THE TOILER. 

The following piece of poetry has been copied in 
nearly a hundred papers in all parts of the country 
during the past few weeks, and been credited to 
more than a dozen different papers, and now we find 
it in one of our exchanges as being original with 
them. This is too much ! We can no longer allow 
this little poem to wander as an orphan upon the 
earth, and would therefore state that it was written 
for the "Advocate," by L. H. Beal of Lewiston, and 
first appeared in our issue of Jan. 29th.— Labor Ad- 
vocate. 

Tell me not with present wages, 
How the toiling man may save, 

For the man who teaches thusly, 
Must be either fool or knave. 

Work is real, work is weary, 
Making shoes or shoveling coal, 

And fair wages for his labor, 
Is the right of every soul. 



20 L. H. BEAL. 

Little pleasure and much sorrow 
Is the toiler's every day, 

And he fears that each tomorrow 
Finds him poorer than today. 

Work is scarce in town or city, 
And although he's tried to save, 

Oft is haunted with a vision 
Of the poor-house, or the grave. 

In the shop or in the factory, 
Dreary is the toiler's life, 

Few the playthings for his children, 
None the luxuries for his wife. 

And the prospect for the future 
Fills his very soul with dread, 

And he oft repeats the question, 
Is there now a God o'erhead? 

They must vote the bosses' ticket, 
Though they have a different mind, 

And they're herded like the cattle, 
Salt before, and dogs behind. 

They must stand the cut, cut, cutting, 
Till their souls with anguish droop, 

Soon will come the Chinese diet, 
Broth of rice and rat-tail soup. 

Rich defaulters oft remind us. 
How from justice they can climb. 

While the poor man steals an ulster, 
And is prisoned for the crime. 



POEMS. 21 



Well they know with purchased ballot, 
They control the toiler's fate, 

And can cut their scanty wages 
To the lowest pauper rate. 



'TIS OWNED A TRUTH, BUT LIVED A LIE. 

How often have we heard it read 
That man by toil should earn his bread. 

Nor live by toil of others. 
This maxim should by age and youth 
Be cherished as a central truth, 

If men would live as brothers. 

But many maxims peaned high, 
While owned a truth, are lived a lie 

By soulless moneyed classes. 
Though sad it be the solemn fact is, 
Who preach the loudest seldom practice 

To aid the toiling masses. 

Who earn their substance day by day, 
Are idlers' sport and jockeys' prey, 

E'en in a land of steeples. 
While Capital, with lordly tone, 
Absorbs a profit as its own, 

Which is of right the people's. 

And all can see — not lucre blind — 
The giant scourge of working kind 

Is robbery made legal! 
Made legal for the millionaire 
By Congressmen, for liberal share 

Of "dividend" so regal. 



22 L. II. BEAL. 

"They serve themselves or Justice, which 
Who enter poor, and exit rich?" 

Inquires a homespun neighbor, 
"While toiling millions, sparsely fed, 
Are toiling for their daily bread. 

The product of their labor." 

How long will toilers pine on crust, 
The slaves of Mammon's greed or gust, 

And Shylock's heartless plunder? 
Till Justice speaks in thunder tones, 
And echoes answer through the zones, 

" Despoilers, stand from under"! 



ALPHONSE AND ANGELINA. 

She satisfied his heart's desire, 
Herself had made him whole ; 

In constancy he gave to her 
His very inmost soul. 

But thoughtlessly she listened to 

The tempter's lullaby, 
And went astray one summer day, 

To chase a butterfly. 

But when she caught the gaudy thing 

She dropped it in alarm, 
Instead of a harmless butterfly, 

A beetle stung her palm. 

And then she vowed a solemn vow, 
The while she felt the sting, 

No more she 'd stray from wisdom 's way, 
To do such a foolish thing. 



POEMS. 2& 

He thought he could forgive the sin 

That brought such bitter woe, 
But many a day has passed away 

And still he feels the blow. 



A POET'S EFFUSION. 

On Durham's hill, so bleak and bare, 
With sand and gravel everywhere, 
Where shrubs all wither in despair 

And only leave a fossil, 
There stands a tent, so large and stout, 
Where gospel people sing and shout, 
And sinners all are put to rout 

By the renowned apostle. 

He's always ready for the fight. 

With texts well charged with dynamite, 

Nor trusts his converts out of sight 

Lest they would be backsliding. 
He gives the allopathic dose; 
'Tis "shut your eyes and pinch your nose, 
Open your mouth and down it goes/ 7 

All in his skill confiding. 

On Heaven's wrath he loves to dwell 
And fans the smouldering fires of Hell 
Till you can hear the sinners yell 

And saints in exultation. 
He has a private telephone 
Direct to the eternal throne, 
When Heaven makes all its purpose known 

By special revelation. 



24 



L. H. BEAL. 

And often when he feels perplexed 
About who'll feed and lodge him next, 
Then comes to him his favorite text : 

Behold the blooming lilies. 
About the morrow have no care 
"What ye may have to eat or wear, 
For ye shall have a sumptuous fare, 

Nor worry what the bill is. 

He cures the lame and heals the sick, 
And does it on the double quick 
And teaches converts the same trick, 

For this they all declare. 
Those who are blind receive their sight 
"With hallelujahs of delight. 
The while the doctor pales with fright, 

The picture of despair. 

No matter where was their first morn, 
In Yankee land or on Cape Horn, 
Or whether wise or foolish born, 

Or what their life's behavior; 
They're counted with the heavenly throng, 
For Hallelujah shout and song 
"Will so atone for moral wrong, 

They'll hardly need a saviour. 



DEACON PHARISEE. 

That's the deacon who's just come to the store, 
As eager for lucre as ever before, 
Though his winters and summers are seventy or more, 
Today he's collecting his rents. 



POEMS. 25 

His place in the chapel is in the front pew, 
And in fervor of prayer his rivals are few, 
When his tears for sinners will fall like the dew, 
For his zeal for the cause is intense. 

The profits of banking he early foresaw, 

And went for those bonds with a miserly claw, 

To get double interest under cover of law ; 

Now he lives in a palace up town. 
He'Jl oft drop a penny in Pharisee style, 
For the spread of the gospel at the head of the Nile, 
But his next door neighbor is starving the while 

On the broth of the latest cut-down. 

But his rents are so high, and wages so poor, 

His tenants are clamoring as never before, 

When he lobbies his congress for ten per cent, more 

Of currency on his bank bonds. 
You may think him a fool, but he 's running no risk, 
For his servants all know that it pays to be brisk, 
And his agent presides at the treasury's desk, 

And quickly to Shylock responds. 

So here is the deacon, 'thout blemish or fault, 
All booked for the Kingdom as scriptural "salt," 
With his treasures so safe in the National vault, — 

What more would you have him to be. 
But spake the great Teacher to the rich man of yore, 
"Go sell what thou hast and give to the poor, 
Then bearing the cross, follow me evermore. 

This one thing thou lackest I see." 

"Pro Bono Publico," high sounding phrase, 
But its meaning is not what is was in the days 
When poets and sages were sounding our praise, 
And our rulers were honest and true. 



26 



L. H. BEAL. 



Now Labor's enslaved by corporate greed, 
We have a new version, by Shylock decreed, 
And "Pro Bono Bankero" now we must read 
The many must toil for the few. 



THE "SCAB" SHOE BOSS. 

He in his private office sat 

In deepest meditation, 
Nor was he in a prayerful mood, 

But cursed the situation. 

"These workingmen in Lynn," says he, 
"Are getting 'bove their masters, 

When wages shall be governed by 
A mob of Union lasters. 

"If we allow this hoodlum crowd 

To set the price of labor, 
What chance have we to undersell 

The prices of our neighbor? 

"We'll move our business down to Maine 
Where help is cheap and plenty; 

For what we now pay thirty cents, 
We'll there get done for twenty. 

"They'll give us everything we ask, 

And will be so elated 
They'll vote for half a score of years 

To have our tax abated. 

"Already they've a statute there 
Which makes these lasters tremble; 

When strikers meet for council, they 
1 Unlawfully assemble.' 



POEMS. 27 

" There rent is cheap, and we are told, 

With slight expense for fuel; 
While Down East scabs whom we shall hire 

Can live on pork and gruel. 

"We shall be looked upon in Maine 

As natives view Columbus; 
Nor Union men nor Knights of L. 

Will dare to make a rumpus, 

"And shall be granted that respect 

Befitting our position ; 
With scab-made shoes we'll undersell 

And strangle competition. 

"With honors and with offices, 

We shall be covered over; — 
Instead of Massachusetts straw, 

We'll luxur'ate in clover." 

Thus muse the men who fain would crush 

The cause of honest toilers; 
Of manhood's rights and happy homes 

They are the bandit spoilers. 

For many years they held the fort, 

And ruled as soulless masters; 
'Twas ere the Knights of Labor came, 

Or days of Union lasters. 

The time has come when laboring men 

No more like slaves will cower; 
For "Boycott" is abroad today, 

And tyrants dread his power. 



28 L. H. BEAL. 

We're in the fight for manhood's right, 
No vandal boss shall snatch it; 

Though we prefer the pipe of peace, 
"We do not fear the hatchet. 

And if you fill your shop with scabs 

To living prices slaughter, 
The Knights will camp upon your track, 

Until you cry for quarter. 

You'll wake some morn to find your goods 
Have soured upon the market, 

And then the cow that gives you milk, 
Will have the "boycott' garget. 



Ques. — Will you please give the poem, "Pod 
Auger Days," as sung by Uncle Solon Chase forty 
years ago? X. 

Leeds. 

Ans. — The following are the lines taken from an 
old number of Chase 's Chronicle : 

I saw an aged man at work. 

He turned an auger round, 
And ever and anon he'd pause 

And meditate profound. 
"Good morning, friend," quoth I to him. 

"Art thinking when to raise?" 
"Oh, no," said he. I'm thinking on 

The old Pod Auger days." 

True, by the hardest then we wrought, 
With little extra aid; 



POEMS. 29 

On honor were the things we bought, 

On honor those we made. 
But now ambition stalks abroad, 

Deception dogs her ways, 
Things different are from what they were, 

In old Pod Auger days. 

Then homely was the fare we had, 

And homespun what we wore; 
Then scarce a niggard pulled the string 

Inside his cabin door; 
Then humbugs did not fly so thick, 

As half the world to haze; 
That sort of bug was little known 

In old Pod Auger days. 

Then men were strong and women fair, 

As hearty as the doe. 
And few so dreadful feeble were, 

They could not knit and sew. 
Then girls could sing, and they could work, 

And thrum gridiron lays; 
That sort of music took the palm, 

In old Pod Auger days. 

Then men were patriots (rare indeed 

An Arnold or a Burr) 
Loved well their country, and in turn 

"Were loved and blessed bv her. 
Then Franklin, Sherman, Rittenhouse, 

Earned well the nation's praise; 
We've not the Congress that we had 

In old Pod Auger days. 

Then slow and certain was the word, 
Now de'il the hindmost take. 



SO L. H. BEAL. 

Then buyers rattled down the tin, 
Now words must payment make. 

Then murder-doing villians soon 
Were decked in hempen bays; 

We didn't murder in our sleep, 
In old Pod Auger days. 

So wags the world, 'tis well enough, 

If wisdom went by steam ; 
But in my day she used to drive 

A plain, old fashioned team, 
And justice with the bandage off 

Can now see choice in ways. 
She used to sit blindfold and stern, 

In old Pod Auger, days. 

— Selected. 



AN APPEAL TO J. P. MORGAN. 
A Parody on "The Clock in the Steeple Strikes One" 
By J. P. Beal. 

O Morgan, dear Morgan, be kind to us now, 

For we are both hungry and cold, 
No food in the pantry, no coal in the bin, 

While you have a plenty we're told. 
The fire has gone out, the house is all dark, 

No fuel to make us hot tea, 
While poor Uncle Sam is sick unto death 

And no one to help us but thee. 

Chorus — Be kind, be kind, O Morgan, 
dear Morgan, be kind. 



POEMS. 31 

O Morgan, dear Morgan, be kind to us now, 

And settle that strike if you will, 
Just pay the poor miners whatever they ask, 

You're able to settle the bill. 
Our Senate is sick, the House is now sad, 

While ''Teddy" is out on a spree, 
There's millions of people just now on their knees, 

All begging for mercy of thee. 

Chorus — Be kind, &c. 

O Morgan, dear Morgan, be kind to us now, 

For justice and mercy we plea, 
While now you are claiming the whole of the earth 

Do not drown us all in the sea. 
While "the earth was the Lord's and fullness 
thereof, ' ' 
His children all shared the same, 
But in that good time no one ever dreamed 
You would cheat Him out of His claim. 

Chorus — Be kind, &c. 

Morgan, dear Morgan, be kind to us now, 

Very sad, indeed, is our lot; 
Have mercy, we pray, on us poor feeble worms, 

Who furnished the riches you've got. 
The railroads we build, the coal that we mine, 

And the ships that sail o'er the sea, 
And the cattle we raise and the wheat that we grow, 

Are all for the glory of thee. 

Chorus — Be kind, &c. 
North Abington. J. P. Beal. 



32 L. H. BEAL. 

MEDITATION. 

I sit alone and meditate, 

Down by the sad sea shore, 
Why was I doomed by cruel fate 

To sigh forevermore? 

The morning sun through fields and bowers,. 

Brings forth the welcome day, 
I see him greet the weeping flowers, 

And kiss their tears away. 

How oft I wish that I were they, 

"While sitting by the sea; 
The dreary night, or gloomy day, 

No gladness brings to me. 

A skeleton of ghastly mien, 

Oft stalks athwart my way, 
To haunt me in delirious dream, 

Or mock me through the day. 

When through the chilly mist I see 

A ray of hope serene, 
The hideous monster shadows me, 

And ever stands between. 

But once I found a verdant spot 

Along the desert strand, 
And thought the while it was my lot 

To gain the Promised land. 

I lingered there by flowers and stream,. 

Till life with joys ran o'er, 
But soon I woke, as from a dream, 

With pangs in every pore. 



POEMS. 33 

Could I erase from memory's scroll, 

All but this dream of bliss, 
'Twould lift the shadow from my soul, 

And save from Hell's abyss. 



But I must travel, travel on, 
Though weary and foot-sore, 

My footsteps nearing, one by one, 
Oblivion's silent shore. 



TO M. G. H. 



Though numbed by Death's approaching chill, 

And past all hope's endeavor, 
The noisy quack with puke and pill 

Will make you sound as ever. 



THE FLIRT. 



Beware, my friend, of that laydee, 

She's but a heartless flirt; 
Though she's a wife with husband's three, 

She's married none to hurt. 

Her suiters are of every grade, 

And coo her to their sorrow, 
Today it is a man of trade, 

A doctor 'tis tomorrow. 



34 L. H. BEAL. 

A lawyer next is on her string, 

If married, all the better, 
A churchman next presents a ring 

With Love's initial letter. 

A dentist smitten to the core, 

Now fills a molar, gratis, 
But when he wakes from the amour 

He'll weep that such his fate is. 

A journalist of rare repute 

Engages her attention, 
But what he's written is so cute, 

It will not bear to mention. 

An artist rises now to say 

That he is only human, 
He lost his head the very day 

He photographed that woman. 

These trophies won, she won't disdain, 

The scalp of a mechanic, 
And plies her arts until his brain 

Is whirling in a panic. 

I see them now pass in and out, 

All in my mind's review, 
Till it calls up the song about 

The woman in the shoe. 

My friend, be firm, and waver not, 

Else it will be your ruin, 
For hell is waiting, seething hot, 

To have such dupes a stewin'. 



POEMS. 35 

WAS IT A DREAM? 

I had a dream, if dream it was, 

Let him deride who will, 
I sat within a balmy grove, 

Close by a sparkling rill. 

And many came within the grove, 

With crutch and ambulance, 
While much I wondered at the sight 

Of such a circumstance. 

But while I wondered, sore amazed 

At such unusual sight, 
I caught the sound of joyous shouts 
And echoes of delight. 

"What means all this," I spoke aloud, 

"Tell me, ye powers above. " 
Then something seemed to answer ines 

"This is the Sylvan Grove. 

"Whoever drinks from that pure spring 

However great their ill, 
Will soon rejoice in perfect health 

And feel life's joyous thrill. 

"E'en age will lose its tottering step, 

And bald heads soon will bear 
As fine a crop as e'er was seen 

Of curly, fresh new hair." 

And then I noticed, as they all 

Returned from Sylvan waters, 
They came 'thout crutch or ambulance, 

As joyous sons and daughters. 



36 L. H. BEAL. 

This truly is a marvelous age 
To sift the truth from errors, 

When Sylvan waters will restore, 
A gift that once was Sarah's. 

There gospel people pitch their tents 
And sleep and take their dinners; 

They've found how quickly Sylvan drink 
Will make good saints of sinners. 

And as I hastened to the spring 
From whence I heard the shouting, 

And there beheld the miracles, 
There was no room for doubting. 

This was the burden of their song, 
As they threw down their crutches, 

"We've found at last the balm of youth, 
For Sylvan water such is." 

With crutches big and crutches small 
The ground was covered over. 

False teeth and hair which some declare 
Had fooled full many a lover. 

To write what I had seen and heard 

1 felt a strong conviction, 
And got the heading started thus : 

"The truth more strange than fiction." 

With rudest summons I awoke, 

" 'Tis almost train time, captain!" 

Mine might have been a famous pen 
But for this sad mishappen. 



POEMS. 37 

THE BASHFUL LOVER. 

Though I can boast of wealth and fame, 
And did not toil to get the same, 
But simply took my father's name 

When he his checks passed over; 
But still my life is in a haze, 
I've had a sorrow all my days, 
My looks the sorry fact betray — 

I am a bashful lover. 

Why it is thus I do not know, 
But when I look at calico 
My knees begin to tremble so 
I wish I's under cover. 

for a balm, myself to 'oint, 

To stiffen up my trembling joint, 
And hold me to the sticking point, 
And save a bashful lover. 

1 lived so quiet all my days, 

AVith few to blame and none to praise, 
Nor ever had the woman craze 

For thirty years or over; 
Until about a year ago 
('Twas all by chance, I'd have you know) 
When cupid sprang the fatal bow 

And hit a bashful lover. 

That summer day, as I rode o'er 
A country road, the rain did pour, 
And I called at a farmer's door 

Until the shower was over. 
The rooms with music did resound 
From wingless angels that I found, 
And sad I left that farmer's ground, 

A hopeless, bashful lover. 



38 L. H. BEAL. 

And ever since I seem to hear 
That silver voice ring out so clear, 
And ever smiling, ever near, 

Her image seems to hover. 
I'm dead in love, there is no doubt, 
But cannot bring the match about, 
With courage none, to help me out- 

I'm such a bashful lover. 



SEQUEL TO THE BASHFUL LOVER. 

I met the lady's friend one day, 
And as the folks were all away. 
She offered me without delay 

A sprig of four-leaved clover. 
Then teased me of my love affair, 
And talked of things I did not dare — 
Declared she'd nursed with tender care, 

Full many a bashful lover. 

She said she knew of my distress 
And how I pined for a caress, 
And then, how easy she could bless, 

So it to duty drove her. 
The lady that you think divine, 
Is truly a dear friend of mine, 
And she'll feel sad to have you pine 

And die her bashful lover. 

Some evening we will on her call, 
My mother will not care at all. 
For she is not the one to bawl 
When I'm an evening rover. 



POEMS. 39 

Then I can teach you like a book 
Just how to make an elbow crook, 
And take away the sheepish look 
Of such a bashful lover. 

You must put on a winning face, 
While I, with ardor, plead your case, 
To multiply your father's race 

Until your laps run over. 
'Tis said in whispers rather low, 
But of its truth, I do not know, 
"She's got a second-handed heau" 

Who's not a bashful lover. 

But when we've seen, and plead with her, 
If she's so foolish to prefer 
To wed a gray old widower, 

I surely will reprove her. 
And since this thing we have begun, 
If you'll consent to have it done, 
I'll be your darling, 'tis such fun 

To cure a bashful lover. 

Now why not call some twilight hour 
And with me ride to Auburn tower; 
AVe'll talk of love, and its strange power 

To kindred thoughts discover. 
Don't waste your "dears" on heartless game,. 
When you're so near a blushing dame 
Who's dying to receive the same, 

From e'en a bashful lover. 

She plead with such resistless power 
I lost my heart that very hour. 
And followed her to hymen's bower, 
Nor angels knew above her. 



40 L. H. BEAL. 

And since the way has been so plain 
My courage has been on the gain, 
And I am free from every pain 
That binds a bashful lover. 



THE NEW ULSTER. 

I have got an ulster, Mary, 
For the weather chilled me so, 

And I cannot bear exposure, 
As in winters past, you know. 

'Twas the cheapest one they told me, 
That they had in all the store, 

And they sold it at the cost-mark, 
For they knew that I was poor. 

The old coat has done good service, 
Bought when times were not so hard, 

When we never feared a cut-down, 
And no tramps came in the yard. 

When we used good dairy butter 
And you wore a flannel dress, 

Blessed we were with peace and plenty, 
Nor dreamed we of comforts less, 

Darling Nellie, then was with us, 
Just begun to lisp your name, 

And we knew not how we loved her, 
Till the fell Destroyer came. 



POEMS. 41 

But the times have changed so, Mary, 

That they hardly can be worse, 
What was once the poor man's country, 

Only now receives his curse. 

For the millionaires now revel, 

Aided by those " robber laws," 
Made by men our votes elected, 

But so soon betrayed our cause. 

But I've drifted from the ulster 

Far upon another track, 
For when evil times are on us, 

Memory loves to lead us back. 

We must work for what's before us, 
Not for what is passed and gone. 

Providence will smile upon us, 

When we've learned to stand alone. 

You will cut the old coat over, 

For I know it is your rule, 
Making both the boys a jacket, 

That must do to wear to school. 



THAT OLD GRAY FOX. 

In Webster town there roves a fox, 

So very old and gray, 
That visits oft the farmers' flocks. 

And takes the best away. 

He's roved the wood for many a year, 
Defying dog and gun, 



42 L. H. BEAL. 

And champion hunters, far and near, 
For his old hide have "run. " 

Full many a hound of royal blood 

Has wearied in the chase, 
Come moping home from field and wood, 

In sorrow and disgrace. 

Sometimes, when followed rather close, 

For Canada he steers, 
He's lately learned this trick of those 

Defaulting bank cashiers. 

And when the hounds are tired out, 

And wearied in the chase, 
They'll see this same old fox about 

His old familiar place. 

Should you this story dare assail, 
With doubts its truth to credit : 

Then hear a Webster hunter's tale — 
I write it as he said it. 

"I hid behind a pile of rocks, 
While hunting him one day, 

When all at once appeared this fox 
Not forty yards away. 

"He sat there in a quiet way, 
Watching the dogs that ran, 

And in his manner seemed to say, 
'Now catch me if you can.' 

"A better chance to stop his game, 

No hunter would desire ; 
I snapped both barrels with good aim, 

But both alike held fire ! 



POEMS. 43 

"■It was the first and only time 

My gun had ever missed—*- 
To kill that fox would be a crime 

I honestly insist." 

There's many a hunter who ean tell 

Experience just like this ; 
With common cartridge, or with shell, 

Their gun is sure to miss. 

The hunters all have told to me 

This modern witchcraft story; 
Who ere will solve the mystery, 

Will win undying glory. 



THE SHYSTER LAWYER'S PRAYER. 

0, Father Cleveland, hear our prayer 

For evil days are on us, 
And heavy rumblings in the air, 

Of greater sorrows warn us. 

We hear the tramp of cowhide boots, 
AVorn by the Knights of Labor, 

For kicking o'er the trustee suits 
Served on our poorer neighbor. 

Our only source of revenue 

That keeps us 'bove the toiler — 

0, Father, now we look to you 
To save us from the spoiler. 



44 L. H. BEAL. 

0, Father Cleveland, don't you know 
It is the worst of scandals, 

To run the guillotine so slow 
Upon the Jim Blaine vandals. 

While we who bow at Jackson's shrine, 
Are starving — nearly dying 

To serve the country while 'tis thine, 
Its every need supplying. 

This clam 'ring of the Knights of L. 

To stay the trustee process, 
Will knock our business all to, — well 

It surely will unhorse us. 

To all the measures you advise, 
Support we've given hearty, 

You can't afford to jeopardize 
The welfare of the party. 

By harb'ring still the horde of bums, 
To please the mugwump rabble, 

While we are starving for the crumbs 
That fall beneath your table. 

To keep the party working well 
You've need of legal bosses 

To deal with all who've votes to sell, 
And dodge the statute clauses. 

0, Father, do not keep us long 

Without official boodle. 
And we will sing your praise in song 

Surpassing Yankee Doodle. 



POEMS. 45 

THE DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION. 

i ' That old pump, with squeaking lever, 

Yields a fearful crop of fever." 

Thus we heard the doctor say, 

In his office, 'cross the way. 

He prescribes what health will bring, 

Water from the Sylvan Spring. 



THE STUDENT'S VACATION. 

Now vacation days are over, 
Happy days they were to me, 

Mid the sweet perfumes of clover, 
Singing bird and humming bee. 

Glad relief from studies dreary, 
Latin verbs and puzzling Greek, 

Musty lore that makes us weary, 
Dizzy brain, and a body weak. 

Now it often is a puzzle 

How to spend vacation day, 

But to strengthen nerve and muscle, 
There is naught like making hay. 

Making hay for recreation, 

Some might think was rather rash, 
But we have the consolation 

That it brings the ready cash. 

Think not that my part was chosen 

All for mercenary pay, 
Working for my uncle's cousin 

AVith his lovely daughter May. 



46 L. H. BEAL. 

For it was her presence queenly 

Gave to daily toil a zest, 
As she smiled on me serenely. 

It was all I could request. 

When our daily work was over, 
To the hammock would we hie, 

With the shade tree fo*r a cover. 
All alone, that girl and I. 

Thoughts of books and rules of college 
All too gladly did I leave, 

While a-swinging 'neath the foliage. 
Just as Adam did with Eve. 

Could that hammock tell or write us, 
Secrets that it has in store; 

It would doubtless so delight us 
We'd rehearse them o'er and o'er. 

But its secrets none can borrow, 
They are safe within its fold; 

Ne'er a word for joy or sorrow, 
Has that hammock ever told. 

But this dream so full of gladness, 
All too soon has passed away; 

Youthful joys are turned to sadness 
And my hopes are gone for aye. 

All in vain for me to tell her 
That my heart is all her own, 

For she's got another feller, 

While I sigh with pangs unknown. 



POEMS. 47 

GETTING RICH ON WHAT THEY OWE. 

The banker is sitting in his easy chair, 

Sipping his sherry with a kingly air, 

'Gainst his comfort and pleasure no wants interpose, 

His riches are gathered from dollars he owes. 

With coin-plated scissors he cuts the coupons, 
Which are quarterly cashed, from his untaxed bonds, 
Now don't bother him with the toling men's woes, 
He's casting the income from dollars he owes. 

He gathers his income from currency loans, 
Together with interest from bonds that he owns, 
All paid by the wielders of hammer and hoes, 
To the bank that gets rich on the dollars it owes. 

His government, only for one per cent, shaving, 
Endorses his paper and does his engraving; 
For he is a banker and bankers, you know, 
Have a right to draw interest on money they owe. 

Though industry's wrecked on the sea of finance, 
He is the wrecker who can fiddle and dance ; 
For this is his harvest he knows to a figure, 
When wages are shrinking his dollars grow bigger. 

When government needed brave men to defend her, 
She made her own promise a full legal tender, 
Then pawnbrokers swore and the bankers pooh- 
poohed. 
It threatened the income on dollars they owed. 

The Belmonts and Buels disturbed in their hives, 
And scenting the danger resolved to "jine drives.' : 
So on a night's special to congress they go, 
'To care for the interest on dollars they owe. 



48 L. H. BEAL. 

Then putting their money where it did the most 

good, 
How well they succeeded is well understood ; 
For when with committees their labors were done, 
Their interests were found to be mutually one. 

The Mobilier statesmen, who never count pennies, 
Saw greenbacks to bankers a standing menace ; 
And then they conspired with the banker & Co. 
To murder the greenback — refund it, you know. 

And this is their funding if truth I have got, 

Give a note which bears interest for a note which 

does not, 
While the broker and banker, now don't you forget, 
Have specie to sell and money to let. 

Yes, Uncle Sam's money they burn without stinting, 
Then furnish rich bankers at bare cost of printing; 
Then vote them gold interest on what they may owe 

him, 
Till Samuel swears at the treatment they show him. 

Hold now, says the banker, 'tis good that we did it, 
'Twill prosper the nation and strengthen its credit; 
Let congress attend to the matters of state, 
And we'll let your money at regular rate. 

Now the pawnbroker press led on by Tribune, 
Meet logic and figures by harping "Commune," 
While pulpits too often in Mammon's behalf, 
Deny the pure gospel to worship the Calf. 

Aye, many would serve the gold master so well 
They'll muzzle their devil and ventilate hell; 
And all for the comfort of bankers, you know, 
When they cease to draw interest on dollars they owe 



POEMS. 49 

THE GOSPEL TRAMP. 

Say, have you seen the pious tramp, 

Who's lately come to town, 
Of the Salvation Army stamp, 

A reg'lar gospel clown? 

This gospel jocky says his god 

Has called him here so loud, 
The place where many a pious fraud 

Has found a gaping crowd. 

'Tis there he brandishes his sword 

To fight the powers of evil, 
Where boldly he'll advise the Lord, 

And wrestle with the devil. 

He'll bellow so in sulphurous tones, 

Against the sins of pelf, 
The quaking sinner in his bones, 

Thinks he's the devil, himself. 

Then he despises worldly fame, 

And nothing cares for gold, 
But he likes victuals all the same, 

And better hot than cold. 

He boards around at every place 

Where they will let him in, 
Kepeats his prayers and says the grace 

With such a saintly grin. 

The parlor bed is then made up, 

For he is bound to stay, 
So closely followed by his dog 

To keep the devil away. 



50 L. H. BEAL. 

Some of his converts, we are told, 
Are crooked sort o' chaps; 

Today he has them in the fold, 
Tomorrow they'll relapse. 

When next you wrestle with the Lord 
With your advise and prayer, 

Just ask him if he can't afford 
Something 't will wash and wear. 

Tell him you'll have a .better start 
If he will take the pains, 

While he is fixing up your heart, 
To mix a little brains. 



SHALL WOMAN VOTE? 

If suffrage be a natural right 

Inherent in the human, 
Then why contend in savage might 

Against the claim of woman? 

If government derives its powers 
From those it justly rules, 

Then women must be counted in, 
Or classed with knaves and fools. 

If government impose a tax 

While suffrage it denies, 
Our land is ruled by tyrants, else 

Our vaunted maxim lies. 

Man's freedom is not worth the name 

If ballot he's denied, 
His franchise and her equal claim 

No logic can divide. 



POEMS. 51 

HIS UNCLE'S NEPHEW. 

There is a rich man's nephew who 

Now lives at Squedunk Palls, 
And for a brief description the 

Occasion loudly calls. 

He is a politician, and 

One of the noisy kind; 
And relishes a glass of beer— 

Of whiskey wouldn't mind. 

He thinks himself of consequence, 
And knows what he's "a-doin', " 

Is death on Knights of Labor, for 
Says he, "They'll be our ruin." 

He for a brilliant orator 

By nature was designed, 
His voice, his mien, his attitude — 

How happily combined! 

And in this modern Cicero 

There is but one defect ; 
His uncle's being rich, you see, 

Has warped his intellect ! 

Each evening, at the corner store, 
We're sure to hear the bragger, 

Of whom ambitious youths may learn 
To swear, to swell and swagger. 

He'd diet every striker on 

A herring and a cracker, 
And when he's finished such harangue, 

He takes a "chaw terbaccer. " 



52 



L. H. BEAL. 

The Knights of Labor pass him by, 

Nor care to hear his whine ; 
"Cast not your pearls," the Scripture says, 

"Before the filthy swine." 

Now here's a word of free advice 

To him on this occasion : 
As soon as that old uncle dies, 

And you can get your portion, 

Go pay those ancient grocery bills, 

Nor evermore enlarge them; 
Nor call for liquors and cigars, 

Then leave with : ' ' you may charge them. ' : 

And if you think the working class 

Inclined to over reaching, 
If you will labor some yourself, 

'Twill change your style of preaching. 

Go pay your bills throughout the town, 
Your debts, both old and young, sir; 

And, finally, above all else, 

In public hold your tongue, sir. 



CENTENNIAL POEM. 

Once on a time in ninety-nine, 
As in the "book" recorded, 

The voters met in early March, 
As by the warrant ordered. 



POEMS. 53 

One of the "Articles" discussed 

With zeal and animation 
Was, "Shall the town raise money for 

The coming celebration." 

The patriots plead their cause so well 

They vote to raise five hundred, 
And every one was satisfied 

Till "counsel" said they blundered; 

Then jealousy — the social fiend 

And bane of human fancies — 
Thus early shows its nimble hand 

To run the scheme's finances. 

The "Village" claim by right divine 

The whole Centennial honor, 
And then the "Falls" make equal claim, 

With "Ridge" and "Peppermint Corner." 

The "Center," too, must now be heard 

To make the scramble merry, 
It has a store and church "to let," 

A pump and cemetery. 

With all these warring claims combined 

To rattle the committee, 
Remember when you criticise 

To mix a grain of pity. 

So every scheme devised by men 

Must surely run its chances; 
Great battles have been lost and won 

By little circumstances. 



54 L. H. BEAL. 



Another meeting must be called 

To satisfy the "kicker"; 
To hear their mental summersaults 

"Would make a deacon snicker. 

Why listen to the "kicker's" plea 

Of legal allegory, 
The question settled by a court 

Might tell a different story. 

The sister towns throughout the state 

(As Durham did precisely) 
Raised money for Centennial show, 

And still are doing nicely. 

A move to stick to former vote 

Was very quickly "tabled," 
And then they voted to repair 

The law they had disabled. 

The women, so disgusted with 

The men's Centennial fooling, 
Right on the date will celebrate 

In spite of all the ruling. 

And when they see how we succeed, 

'Twill be the same old story, 
They will, with brazen impudence, 

Step in and claim the glory. 

The Centennial poem, as recited by Miss Evie 
Littlefield, carried the audience by storm. Every 
verse hit the nail on the head, and the last one 
clinched it so there is no danger of its ever pulling 



POEMS. 55- 

out. Miss Littlefield possesses an originality in her 
method that is pleasing, and one day she may find 
herself among the honored ones of our village. 

The poem was written by the famous poet of the 
old historic town of Durham, L. H. Beal, and is 
printed elsewhere in this article so our readers will 
have the privilege of reading it. — Lisbon Enterprise, 



THE POLITICIAN. 

The politician is a man 

Of moral sense divested, 
From Washington to Cleveland's reign, 

He has our land infested. 

He's fashioned like some heathen gods, 

With faces four in number; 
With mouth and cheek too large by odds, 

And eyes that never slumber. 

And neither in the front nor rear, 

Can wily foe ensnare him, 
For nothing but a ballot box 

Was ever known to scare him. 

His conscience is as plastic clay 
In hands of moulding potter; 

He favors stringent temperance laws, 
With whiskey free as water. 

His friendship for the upper dog, 

Was never known to waver, 
And in the late rebellion, there 

Was found no soldier braver. 



56 L. H. BEAL. 

Let every scarred old veteran to 

His valor take a bumper; 
His honors and his victories won, 

All through a bounty jumper. 

And then in his religious views, 

His head is always level, 
But what his true opinions are, 

Would puzzle saint or devil. 

His speeches on the campaign stump 

Are second-handed gabble, 
What Master Jim repeats to him, 

To captivate the rabble. 

He is so kind and neighborly, 
('Tis just before election), 

And even for your dog he shows 
A wonderful affection. 

Attends the church as regular, 

And puts on saintly airs, 
"Will drop a quarter in the box, 

And bow his head at prayers. 

He follows crowds where'er they go, 
And apes the wise and witty; 

He knows the most that isn't so, 
Of any in the city. 

Now, when we look his record o'er, 
And see how he has ruled us, 

It wounds our pride, and grieves us sore, 
To know how he has fooled us. 



POEMS. 57 

LATEST VERSION OF MARY'S LITTLE LAMB. 

Mary had a little lamb, 

Its fleece was white as snow, 
And every year she sold the wool 

For ready cash, you know. 

Then she would count the dollars o'er, 

As children often do, 
Then put them in the savings bank 

Where interest would accrue. 

Then Mary raised up other lambs, 

But not to send to school, 
For do not get it in your head 

That Mary was a fool. 

She'd heard the politicians talk 

Of syndicate and pool, 
Till avarice seized her very soul 

And changed her into wool. 

Then Mary thought the matter o'er, 

And formed a plan so nice, 
If others had no lambs to shear 

She'd get a better price. 

Her uncle had a blooded dog, 

Protection was his name, 
And he would rather worry lambs 

Than any other game. 

So Mary teased her Uncle Sam 

To give the dog to her, 
Till finally he did consent 

To let her have the cur. 



58 



L. H. BEAL. 

And then o'er all the neighboring hills 

They scouted many a day, 
Till all the lambs, except her own, 

Were driven far away. 

And now the children of the poor, 

Attend no Sunday School, 
Because they can't afford the clothes 

Made up of Mary's wool. 

But Mary rides in a barouche, 
With diamonds in her hair, 

And rumor says she soon will wed 
A city millionaire. 



FOR THE FREEMAN AND VISITOR. 

The following note from Eev. E. Hewitt explains 
the origin of the accompanying stanzas, so full of 
the faith of the gospel : — 

So. Weymouth, August 29, 1861. 

Br. Cobb, — I was called to Abington a few days 
since to attend the funeral of Benson Beal, a young 
man aged 21 years. He was from Poland, Me. He 
had a brother living in Abington, and he came on 
with a joyful spirit to make him a visit, to remain 
a few days and then return. But instead of return- 
ing as he expected, he has journeyed homeward to 
his Father's house in the immortal life. — Though 
young and in the gaiety of youth, he was willing 
to travel onward to his final rest beside the throne 
of God. Peace to all the mourners, and rest ever- 



POEMS. 59 

more to his own soul. L. IT. Beal, a brother of his, 
who came on from Maine to weep that he had so 
soon passed away, and to assist in the burial ser- 
vices, composed the verses which you will find 
within. — Perhaps you will think it well to allow 
them a place in the " Freeman." E. H. 

BENSON TO HIS FRIENDS ON EARTH. 

Hard it is to part with kindred 
Who were loved so much on earth ; 

Fain would you have had me linger 
With the scenes of mortal birth. 

Grieve ye not in tribulation 

That no longer I remain; 
What though short my early mission? 

Death to me was only gain. 

Let your hearts not sink in sadness, 
As you hear the solemn knell; 

But submit to God in gladness, 
For he doeth all things well. 

Why should I, when angels call me, 

In a world of sorrow stay, 
Where temptations would befall me, 

And perchance to lead astray? 

I am with my father, mother, 
Sisters three and brothers four; 

And we know and greet each other, 
Here on Jordan's other shore. 

Ten in all of us in heaven, 

Free from sorrow and distre*, — 

While to earth but five are given — 
And how soon there will be less! 



60 L. H. BEAL. 

But we're with you this sad season, 
Though unseen by mortal eye; 

Death, so dreaded (without reason), 
Severs not affection's tie. 

Often in the hour of sorrow, 

When affliction would you prove, 

Shall my spirit hover o'er you 
And direct your thoughts above. 

Through my illness, so distressing, 
Strangers were so good and free ; 

And I wish them Heaven's blessing, 
For their kindness shown to me. 

Dearest friends, the thoughts of dying 
Did not fill my soul with dread; 

On that still small voice relying, 
Cheerfully I joined the dead. 

Ere my heart had ceased its beating, 
But when mortal pains were o'er, 

Plainly did I hear the greeting, 
"Welcome to the heavenly shore. 

And I saw, with spirit vision, 
Such a bright, angelic band. 

And they sang in strains elysian, 
"Welcome to the spirit land." 

Trust ye, nor to doubt be given — 
I have only gone before; 

We'll unite again in heaven, 
There to dwell forevermore. 



POEMS. 61 

THE CALF PATH. 

One day through the primeval wood 

A ealf walked home as good calves should. 

But made a trail all bent askew, 
A crooked trail as all calves do. 

Since then two hundred years have fled, 
And, I infer, the calf is dead. 

But still he left behind his trail 
And thereby hangs my moral tale. 

The trail was taken up next day 
By a lone dog that passed that way ; 

And then a wise bell wether sheep 
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep, 

And drew the flock behind him, too, 
As good bell wethers always do. 

And from that day o'er hill and glade, 
Through those old woods a path was made. 

And many men wound in and out, 
And dodged and turned and bent about, 

And uttered words of righteous wrath ! 
Because 'twas such a crooked path ; 

But still they followed — do not laugh — 
The first migrations of that calf; 

And through the winding wood-way stalked 
Because he wobbled when he walked. 



&% L. H. BEAL. 

This forest path became a lane 

'That bent and turned and turned again 

This crooked path became a road 
"Where many a poor horse with his load 

Toiled on beneath the burning sun, 
And traveled some three miles in one. 

And thus a century and a half 
They trod the footsteps of that calf. 

The years passed on in swiftness fleet, 
The road became a village street, 

And this, before men were aware, 
A city's crowded thoroughfare. 

And soon the central street was this 
Of a renowned metropolis. 

And men two centuries and a half 
Trod in the footsteps of that calf. 

Each day a hundred thousand rout 
Followed this zigzag calf about; 

And o'er his crooked journey went 
The traffic of a continent. 

A hundred thousand men were led 
By one calf near three centuries dead. 

They followed still his crooked way 
And lost one hundred years a day. 



POEMS. 63 

For thus such reverence is lent 
To well-established precedent. 

A moral lesson this might teach 
Were I ordained and called to preach. 

For men are prone to go it blind 
Along the calf paths of the mind ; 

And work away from sun to sun 
To do what other men have done. 

They follow in the beaten track, 
And out and in, and forth and back. 

And still their devious course pursue 
To keep the path that others do. 

They keep the path a sacred groove 
Along which all their lives they move, 

But how the old wise wood-gods laugh, 
Who saw the first primeval calf. 

Ah, many things this tale might teach — 
But I am not ordained to preach. 

— Sam Walter Foss. 



AN OBJECT LESSON. 

It was a cold and gloomy day, 
While snow was drifting on the way 

I saw a maiden, thinly clad, 
With weary steps and visage sad. 



64 L. H. BEAL. 

Her progress on the way was slow, 
Against the wind and drifting snow. 

Urgent the need, without delay, 
To send her forth on such a day. 

But see ! a team comes up the road, 
A double team; without a load. 

Of course he'll take the child aboard, 
For he's a servant of the Lord; 

A zealous convert to the sect 

That vote themselves the Lord's elect. 

And oft, by special telephone, 
Receive instruction from the Throne. 

But counsel give as well as take, 

Lest Heaven by chance some blunder make. 

While zealous converts pray and shout 
To drive the swarming demons out. 

Nor day nor night they cease their din 
To pray the welcome dollars in. 

But no ! he travels right along, 
Humming aloud his favorite song — 

"I praise the Lord for sins forgiven, 
AYhile traveling on my way to Heaven." 

An exclamation, seething hot, 

Burst loose just then from out my throat. 



POEMS. 65 

Just what it was I will not hint ; 

The words would not look well in print. 

If he's a sample of the leaven, 

That put on wings and capture Heaven, 

It is my fervent daily prayer 
To be excused from going there. 

'Twould torture life till hope was past, 
To know my lot with such was cast. 

I'd run my chance to take my dinners 
And stay below with common sinners. 



BEULAH HILL'S PROPHET BABY. 

(From "Tongues of Fire" of Feb. 15, 1897). 

4 'Unto Us a Child Is Born, Unto Us a Son Is Given.' ' 

"And Thou Shalt Call His Name John." 

Of late one blessing follows another in rapid 
succession. Feb. 7th, at nine o'clock in the morning, 
Mrs. Sanford gave birth to a young prophet. He 
was born in the house of God, in the suite of rooms 
over the beautiful white corner stone, inscribed 
with, "Built upon the foundation of the apostles 
and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief 
corner stone." God himself, with a special provi- 
dence, provided a holy woman of God as nurse, and 
a holy man of God as attending physician. No med- 
icines were administered, but the company of gentle- 
men students at the farmhouse and the company of 



66 L. H. BEAL. 

lady students in the house of God, waited on Him 
for His own marvelous deliverance. The Holy 
Ghost Himself was in charge of the day, and so 
wonderful were the answers to prayer in physical 
results supernaturally brought about, that Dr. Kie- 
fer characterized them as simply "Miraculous." As 
that glorious flag of ours, bearing the word "Vic- 
tory" was sent flying out with the breezes that 
morning, it proclaimed nothing but the truth. "She 
shall be saved through her childbearing, if they 
continue in faith and love and sanctification with 
sobriety." (R. V. margin.) 

On the eighth day (the day upon which among 
the Jews, the male children are circumcised and 
named), he was circumcised, as Paul says: "with 
the circumcision made without hands." The mem- 
bers of the School gathered together, and at nine 
o'clock the father knelt in prayer, commended the 
child to the care of God, and said, "In the name 
of Jesus Christ I name you 'John.' " Not a word 
had been said by Mr. Sanford to his wife giving 
any hint as to the name of the child, and to the 
delight of all, the mother said in a voice trembling 
with the deepest emotion, "I knew that was what 
you were going to call him, before you said it, for 
that was the name He gave me." Like Zacharias 
and Elizabeth of old, they had agreed in the Holy 
Ghost as to the name, and that without conference. 
The Holy Ghost had before this said to Mr. Sand- 
ford, "Thou shalt call his name John." 

The editor of this paper believes he is writing in 
the Holy Ghost, when with the angel he adds, 
"And thou shalt have joy and gladness, and many 
shall rejoice at his birth, for he shall be great in 
the sight of the Lord . . . and be filled with 



67 POEMS. 

the Holy Ghost even from his mother's womb, and 
many of the children of Israel shall he turn to the 
Lord their God: and he shall go before HIM in the 
spirit and power of Elias, and turn the hearts of 
the fathers to the children, and disobedient to the 
wisdom of the just, and make ready a people pre- 
pared for the Lord," and with Zacharias' prophe- 
cies, "Thou child, shall be called the prophet of 
the Highest, and thou shalt go before the face of 
the Lord to prepare His ways, to give knowledge 
of salvation unto His people by the remission of 
their sins, through the tender mercy of God whereby 
the sun rising (margin) from on high hath visited 
us to give light to them that sit in darkness and the 
shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of 
peace." 

Hallelujah! "And the child grew and waxed 
strong in spirit, and was in the deserts until the 
day of his showing unto Israel." 

The Same Story Measured and Rhymed. 

Have you seen the gospel baby, 

Over there on Beulah Hill; 
Born by special dispensation, 

John the Baptist's shoes to fill? 

'Twas on February seventh, 
Eighteen hundred ninety-seven, 

This new prophet made his advent 
As a messenger from Heaven. 

Nine o'clock on Sunday morning 
Was the hour by standard time, 

Johnny second tried his lungs and 
Squalled in gospel tones sublime. 



<)8 L. H. BEAL. 

Holy saints and ancient maidens 
From the Kingdoms near and far. 

Came to greet this baby wonder. 
Guided by the Beulah star. 

They ignored the village doctor 
With his frightful bill of costs, 

For a hallelujah "student" 
Licensed by the "Holy Ghost." 

Nurses, too, were ready, waiting 
For the advent of the boy. 

Each assigned to special duty 
In the "Holy Ghost's" employ. 

Don't you hear the angel chorus? 

"Come ye wiiosoever will, 
Come and see this child of promise, 

Born this day on Beulah Hill." 

He'll proclaim to hardened sinners 
How the way is open still 

But the only road to Heaven 
Is by way of Beulah Hill. 

Go to, now, ye licensed M. D.s, 

Gnash your teeth and howl your woes. 

This babe prophet will confound you, 
Spite your laws that interpose. 

He of course will grow in wisdom, 
Far above the human kind, 

For the light of Heaven's electric 
Will illuminate his mind. 



POEMS. 69 

Then in some primeval forest, 

Ponder in deep solitude, 
How in matters of religion, 

Durham people have been "jewed." 

They have circumcised the baby, 

As the Scripture law demands, 
'Tis a question how they did it, 

If they did not use their "hands." 

Putting him on "locust" diet 

Now would be a cruel scheme, 
So they feed the budding prophet 

On the purest Jersey cream. 

'Course he'll never swear or gamble, 

Never smoke a cigarette, 
Never read the trashy novel, 

Never run his Pa in deot. 

Keep in trust the ten Commandments, 

Never break the Golden Rule, 
Have by heart his Scripture lessons, 

For the Beulah Sunday school. 

Never mate with village rowdies 

When they go upon a spree, 
And will never, never, Never, 

Shock his saintly pedigree. 

May the dread appendicitis 

Never take this prophet off, 
May he never have the measels, 

Fever, croup or whooping cough. 



70 L. H. BEAL. 

When he cuts his primal molars 
He will have as good a care, 

As the "Holy G-host" can furnish 
From its roll of "students" there. 

And his little footy-tooties 
Never '11 suffer from the cold, 

As he coasteth down the hillsides 
Which surround the Beulah fold. 



THE CREATOR'S WORKS. 

The spacious firmament on high, 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangl'd heavens, a shining frame, 

Their great original proclaim. 

Th' unwearied sun, from day to day, 

Does his Creator's pow'r display, 

And publishes to ev'ry land, 

The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail, 

The moon takes up the wond'rous tale, 

And. nightly, to the list'ning earth, 

Repeats the story of her birth; 

Whilst all the stars that round her burn 

And all the planets in their turn, 

Confirm the tidings as they roll, 

And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 

Move round the dark terrestrial ball ! 

What though no real voice nor sound, 

Amid their radiant orbs be found ! 

In reason's ear they all rejoice, 



POEMS. 71 



And utter forth a glorious voice, 
For ever singing as they shine, 
"The hand that made us is divine. 



-Joseph Addison. 



REPLY TO L. H. B. 

I, too, have an only brother, 

"Who lives way ''down East," in Maine, 
Where each year I've made a visit, 

As I hope to do again. 

If I told you I would write you 
Just as soon as I should land, 

Then the promise that I made you 
Was but written in the sand. 

Well, I got to Massachusetts 
In due season, sound and well, 

Drowned I was not on the passage, 
So am still this side of — Hades. 

Have not lost quite all my senses, 
Am not tramping, drunk or crazy, 

But the why I did not write you 
Is because I was too lazy. 

But of teeth, I lost a dozen, 
Which for fifty years I kept ; 

'Twas a dentist took them from me, 
Took them all the while I slept. 



72 L. H. BEAL. 

Well they served me in the army 

Grinding "salt horse" and stale cracker, 

Biting off the paper cartridge, 

Chewing piles of vile "tobaccer"; 

But those teeth may be immortal, 

And have only gone before, 
Where perhaps again I'll use them, 

But for cartridge — nevermore. 

I'll not wait, but get some new ones — 
New and sound from dentist's store — 

Then I'll be so young and handsome, 
As I was in days of yore. 

From a spell of rheumatism 

I am suffering in my side ; 
Have to stand whene'er I'm sitting, 

Have to walk whene'er I ride. 

Still I'm working in the factory — 
Have not lost a single day — 

Spite the pain of rheumatism, 
For I need the weekly pay. 

Maybe one of Sandford's "demons" 
Has been lurking hereabout, 

Watching for some one to tackle, 
Where they cannot "drive him out." 

Think I'll call the family doctor, 
As my friends advise me to, 

And with aid of pill and plaster, 
He perhaps can pull me through. 



POEMS. 73 

Should he fail in diagnosis, 

And with puzzled mien depart, 
Then I'll call on Brother Sanford, 

Buncoe king of healing art. 

Should I stand the double treatment — 
Doctor's pill and gospel quack — 

There is hope that Mother Nature 
In due time will bring me back; 

If we trespass on her statutes 

(Though unconscious at the time) 

She exacts a penal service 
Till we expiate the crime; 

For she has no fake atonement, 
Such as musty creeds have made, 

Each must suffer for the trespass 
Till the penalty is paid. 



PLAIN OLD KITCHEN CHAP. 

[hclman f. day in lewistgn journal] 

Mother's furnished up the parlor — got a full, new, 

haircloth set, 
And there ain't a neater parlor in the county, now, 

I'll bet. 
She has been a-hording pennies for a mighty tedious 

time; 
She has had the chicken money, and she's saved it, 

every dime. 
And she's put it out in pictures and in easy chairs 

and rugs, 



74 L. H. BEAL. 

— Got the neighbors all a-sniffin' 'cause we're puttin' 

on such lugs. 
Got up curtains round the winders, whiter 'n snow 

and all of lace. 
Fixed that parlor till, by gracious, I should never 

know the place. 
And she says as soon's it's settled she shall give a 

yaller tea, 
And invite the whole caboodle of the neighbors in 

to see. 
Can't own up that I approve it; seems too much like 

fug and fuss 
To a man who's lived as I have — jest a blamed old 

kitchen cuss. 

Course we've had a front room always; tidy place 

enough, I guess, 
Couldn't tell; I never set there; never opened it 

unless 
Parson called, or sometimes mother give a party or 

a bee, 
When the women come and quilted and the men 

come round to tea. 
Now we're goin' to use it common. Mother says 

it's time to start 
If we're any better 'n heathens, so's to sweeten life 

with art. 
Says I've grubbed too long with plain things, 

haven't lifted up my soul, 
Says I've denned there in kitchen like a woodchuck 

in his hole. 
— It's along with other notions mother's getting 

from the club, 
But I've got no growl a-comin'; mother ain't let 

up on grub ! 



POEMS. 75 

Still I'm wishin' she would let me have my smoke 

and take my nap 
In the corner, side the woodbox; I'm a plain old 

kitchen chap. 

I have done my stent at farmin'; folks will tell you 

I'm no shirk, 
There's the callus on them fingers that's the badge 

of honest work. 
And them hours in the corner when I've stumbled 

home to rest 
Have been earnt by honest labor and they've been 

my very best. 
Land! If I could have a palace, wouldn't ask no 

better nook 
Than this corner in the kitchen with my pipe and 

some good book. 
I'm a sort of dull old codger, clear behind the times, 

I s'pose, 
Stay at home and mind my bus'ness; wear some 

pretty rusty clothes, 
'Druther set out here'n the kitchen; have for forty 

years or more, 
Till the heel of that old rocker's gouged a hollow 

in the floor; 
Set my boots behind the cook stove, dry my old 

blue woolen socks, 
Get my knife and plug tobacker from that dented, 

old tin box, 
Set and smoke and look at mother clearing up the 

things from tea; 
— Rather tame for city fellers, but that's fun enough 

for me. 
I am proud of mother's parlor, but I'm feared the 

thing has put 



76 L. H. BEAL. 

Curi's notions in her noddle, for she says I'm under- 
foot; 
Thinks we oughter light the parlor, get a crowd and 

entertain, 
But I ain't no city loafer; I'm a farmer down in 

Maine. 
Course I can't hurt mother's feelin's, wouldn't do 

it for a mint, 
Yet that parlor bus'ness sticks me, and I guess I'll 

have to hint 
That I ain't an entertainer, and I'll leave that job 

to son; 
I'll set out here in the kitchen while the folks are 

having fun. 
And if marm comes out to get me, I will pull her 

on my lap 
And she'll know — and she'll forgive me, for I'm jest. 

a kitchen chap. 



VISION OF BOOMING TIMES. 

While I lay in trance or dreaming, 
Visions strangely came to me, 

With the din of boisterous shouting 
And the songs of revelry. 

Then I sought the noisy gathering 
Whence came all this din of glee, 

And I eager put the question, 
What has brought this jubilee? 

One man called me "Rip Van Winkle" 
(He was on the speaker's stand) 



POEMS. 77 

While another shouted "Wayback, 
Just got here from fogy land." 

Booming, booming with the echo, 

Dinning ear and burdening air, 
Booming was the word emphatic 

In each sentence uttered there. 

Then I looked the shouters over 

And they seemed well dressed and fed, 

Corpulent and rosy features 
Were the orators who led. 

This, the burden of their story, 

Times, good times, have come at last, 

Good returns for cash invested, 
Now the tariff law is past. 

There were many speculators — 

Some were bulls and some were bears — 

Lawyers, doctors, priests and laymen, 
And a group of millionaires. 

Saith the Jew, who runs the pawnshop, 

''Never beesnis vas so bright, 
I'se so meny custom beoples 

'Ave to seet up af de night." 

Saith the stoic undertaker, 

"Never times so good as these, 
While the doctors boom my business 

As they gather in their fees." 

Is it true, as they are telling, 

These good times have come to stay, 



78 L. H. BEAL. 

AVhile the "patriots" rule the nation 
And the "traitors" are at bay. 

Then I noticed 'mid the shouters, 
Those who gave the loudest cheers 

"Were the bond and mortgage takers 
And the glib-tongued auctioneers. 

They'd ne'er seen so many auctions, 
Nor themselves in such demand; 

"While their fees have nearly doubled 
Since the times have been so grand. 

Then the man who bids the taxes 
Strokes his beard and looks so wise, 

Shows a list of tax delinquents 
He has had to advertise. 

Thus I listen to the boomers. 

Strangers most, but some I know, 

While in vain I scan the meeting 
For the man who wields the hoe ; 

But they ruled me out of order, 
And with such a vicious rap 

That the speaker broke his gavel 
And awoke me from my nap. 

And I promptly put the question, 
For I wanted much to know, 

Why they did not have some shouters 
From the men who wield the hoe? 

Now I'm puzzling on the vision, 
Make it clear I never can; 

If a reader can explain it 
He must be the wiser man. 



POEMS. 79 

THE POET CRITIC. 

(Reply to W. P. D.) 

There's a blacksmith wondrous wise 
With conceit of over-size ; 

Thinks for rhyming he was built, 
Measures rhyme by crazy-quilt ; 

Rhymes his fables fresh from mint, 
All to get his name in print. 

From the mint of his own brain 
Though it gives it overstrain. 

Chasing scribblers with " replies" 
Through the weekly Enterprise 
Shows him foolish more than wise. 

Better stick to forge and bellows 
Than to chase these slippery fellows. 



PATHS TO FAME. 

Do you have an inclination 

To perpetuate your name 
And are canvassing the chances 

That may bring about the same? 

Many are the strange devices 

(Some are wild and some are tame) 
Sought to make us duly mentioned 

On the fickle page of fame. 



80 L. H. BEAL. 

Some would choose to be a soldier, 
Foremost in the mortal fray, 

And would shadow Grant or Dewey 
As the hero of the day; 

Some will strive to bait the muses 
With their clumsy prose or rhyme, 

But somehow they never get there, 
Though their folly is sublime ; 

Some would be a missionary 
In some far-off heathen land, 

Preach, perhaps, a musty "gospel" 
None but fools can understand; 

Some will take to pills and plaster, 
Thinking they are on the track, 

But short lived is fame and honor 
Won by counterfeit and quack; 

Some through politics aspire to 
Be a statesman, but 'tis said 

By a fellow who has tried it, 

You can't get there till you're dead. 

Then the law has its attractions, 
Both for honor and for gains, 

But, my friend, let me advise you, 
That profession takes the brains. 

Others strive in fierce athletics 
To be master of the game, 

Put their life and health in danger, 
All to set the world aflame; 



POEMS. 81 



But the cheapest way to glory, 
With your safety well in view, 

Is to have your mistress daughter 
Name her baby boy for you. 

But we've known of certain cases, 
You have known others maybe, 

That 'twas pleasant to the "hero, : 
It was cruel to the baby. 

Whate'er form be the endeavor 
The stern maxim still remains, 

None can win a lasting merit 
"Without character and brains. 



A PARABLE. 
In Reply to "A Reader" in the Enterprise. 

I once heard of a famous "freak" 

Who in Cathance did dwell, 
His story as 'twas told to me 

I now to you will tell. 

At first 'twas noticed when his ma 

Would hum a lullaby, 
Instead of quieting the chap, 

It made him louder cry; 

And when they called the doctor in 
(Old Doctor James McGraw) 

He then prescribed in place of hymns 
The filing of a saw. 



82 L. H. BEAL. 

This music had for him a charm, 

He rested right away; 
They laid the saw and file close by 

And used it night and day; 

And many people wondered much 
When this was noised about, 

While some would laugh and others scoff 
And shake their heads in doubt; 

And soon the story got in print — 

The story of the saw — ■ 
And many swore a demon dwelt 

In Doctor James McGraw. 

Then as the boy in stature grew, 
They called him "crazy Ben"; 

He traded off the file and saw 
And got a guinea hen. 

That was the music that he loved 
'Bove all the songs of men, 

He was the marvel of the town — 
This Cathance "crazy Ben." 

But still his intellect was strong, 

He was nobody's fool, 
And graduated at the head 

Of the first class at school. 

When poetry they had to "parse" 
He thought himself abused, 

So when the lesson came to that, 
He got himself excused. 



POEMS. 83 

It made him faint to hear the birds 

Pour forth their songs in June, 
But loved to hear a fiddler rasp 

With strings all out of tune. 

'Tis said that a phrenologist 

Onee of his head asserted 
Ben's was the first he'd ever "felt" 

With music bump inverted. 

But then his life was a success. 

For he was full of "push"; 
He'd always fight you face to face, 

Nor ever take to "bush." 

The sharpest critic on your "staff" — 

His editorials show it — 
Sometimes he'll spare a clumsy prose 

But never will a poet. 

This is the story told to me 

Of Cathance's "crazy Ben," 
The champion of human "freaks" 

Among the sons of men. 

But should he pass the "Pearly Gate" 

(His chance is one in ten) 
And quarrel with the poets there, 

Alas! for "crazy Ben." 



A PRIZE STANZA. 

There's a paper bunco wise 
Called the Fakir Enterprise, 
And its boss, with cheek of brass, 
Is the champion of his class. 



84 L. H. BEAL. 

Have a farm and want to sell it 
Never let this paper tell it ; 
You your business jeopardize, 
If in it you advertise. 



WHY CAN'T WE AGREE? 

I've thought of it over and over — 
The reason I never can see — 

How people can honestly differ 
On questions from tangle so free. 

The facts are all down in the records, 
The volumns are piled on the shelves, 

And when we have studied the subject, 
Why can't we agree 'mong ourselves. 

Why people should split up in parties 
And pummel each other with zest, 

All anxious for saving the country 
From demagogues sorely distressed. 

Has juggling with logic and figures 
As partisans, made us all blind, 

Or demons of evil obcession 

Deranged our true balance of mind? 

Whenever united in purpose 

The people in action agree, 
They bury the charlatan prophets 

Down deep in oblivion's sea. 



POEMS. 85 

'Tis fooling the people, their business, 

So parties can never agree, 
While furnishing partisan fuel 

They gather in salary and fee. 

The up-to-date, suave politician, 

Or embryo statesman of Tophet, 
"Will swindle the gullible public 

While posing as genuine prophet. 

Their double-faced, partisan record, 
They answer in parrot-like pitch, 

And seem quite as pleased at the showing 
As was the poor fool with the itch. 

We hopefully trust to the future, 

Whose calendar surely will show 
The date when the demagogue perished 

Nor left a sad mourner below. 



"MURDER! MURDER!!" 

These were the words that rent the air as we 
were going down the street opposite Shiloh a few 
days ago. We paused and listened. What was it! 
The shriek seemed to come from the direction of the 
temple on the sandhill. Our natural sympathy for 
the distressed was aroused to the highest pitch and 
we were ready to render assistance, though we had 
to fight for it. 

We hurried across the field in the direction of 
the frantic screams and when we got to the borders 
of Shiloh 's sacred sand, we came onto a newspaper 
man who was taking snap-shot views for his maga- 



86 L. H. BEAL. 

zine. He said he had been taking views from vari- 
ous points for over an hour and these same frantic 
screams had been rending the air continually, and 
he was as much wrought up as myself. His first 
thought was that the Boxers from China had in- 
vaded our shores and had commenced with frantic 
zeal to exterminate the "saints" of Beulah Hill by 
flaying a woman alive, but the stoical proselytes were 
moving about all unconcerned as though nothing 
unusual was taking place. Then it occurred to us 
that this might be a fresh victim of the great evan- 
gelist doing penance for some carnal thought or 
deed in her past life. She might have eaten some 
fried pork, perhaps, or drank a cup of coffee before 
she knew it was an offence against the Holy Ghost. 

Then we remembered of hearing periodical wail- 
ings for a long time, but not so loud and continuous, 
and it was said 'twas their modus operandi of exor- 
cizing demons who had found a lodgment in the 
coporosity of the Shiloh saints. 

"Well now did you ever ! We have lived in the 
shadow of that sand-hill many years before Sanford 
was discovered and no one was ever troubled with 
any such imps. We have had measles, whooping- 
cough, mumps, scarlet fever and some other ail- 
ments, but never did a demon such as infests their 
gospel fold mar the serenity of our placid men- 
tality. It seemed to us they must have brought the 
microbes of such ghostly nonentities in a latent 
form with them and they were developed into live 
"creeters" by Sanford 's power of supernatural 
magnetism. We trust modern science with its 
marvelous achievements will not be slow to discover 
a remedy for this greatest of human scourges, but 
Sandford's claim is a marvelous wonder. It is noth- 



POEMS. 87' 

! : 
ing less than a process that your natural born sinner 
can be transformed into a Shiloh saint, all "while 
you wait." But he would have it known that he 
himself is the inventor and sole proprietor of this 
wonderful process, and that all other claims are 
barefaced frauds. 



AN EXTEMPO EFFUSION. 



The Official Record Shows That Dewey Has Dis- 
posed of the Nation's Gift to Him for the 
Consideration of One Dollar! 



Thunderation ! who 'd have guessed 
Dewey would have fouled his nest- 
He, so late the nation's pride, 
Now a moral suicide. 

"What we over-advertised 
Proves a hero undersized, 

And we find, at fearful cost, 
All our gush on him is lost. 

And the charge against the bride — 

Guilty of a herocide — 
Ah, alas! that this should be 

Of this hero of the sea! 



88 L. H. BEAL. 

ANOTHER VIEW OF SHILOH. 

This Time a Poetical Fancy in a Reclaimed 
Sandfordite. 

[lewiston journal] 

A Verse Soon to Be Issued in the Vicinity of Beulah 
Hill. 

Mr. L. H. Beal has brought forth another poem 
which he is about to give to the world. 

Mr. Beal writes poetry for the fun of it and he is 
generous enough to share the pleasures of his verse 
with his friends or any people who care either to 
read or listen. He is an old man and he says that 
he has been writing poetry pretty much all of his 
days. "When anything special comes up in this part 
of the universe, Mr. Beal sits down and writes a 
poem about it. Many of the important happenings 
hereabouts have been preserved in rhyme by the 
Durham poet. Many of them have been printed in 
pamphlet form and distributed far and wide. Like 
Elbridge Gerry Carr, the Mexican poet, Mr. Beal 
generally has several yards of home-made poetry 
which he can produce at a second's notice. 

Mr. Beal was in Auburn, "Wednesday, and was 
showing some of his admirers his latest poem, "The 
Story of a Reclaimed Sandfordite." Mr. Beal lives 
under the shadow of Mt. Shiloh and while he has 
been interested in the movement of Mr. Sandford in 
evangelizing the world, he has not been and is not 
now in sympathy with the work. He has expressed 
his sentiments in verse from time to time. He is 
one of a number of people down around Shiloh who 
say and do things tending to discourage the upbuild- 
ing of the temple. Rev. Mr. Sandford does not seem 



POEMS. 89 

in the least disturbed by these things, holding them 
to be of the devil and unable to do him or the great 
work in which he is engaged, any harm. The man- 
uscript is in the hands of the printer and the poem 
will not be ready for distribution for several days. 
Here is an advance copy of it which the Journal 
publishes : 

At the schoolhouse on the hill, 
In the town of Bedlamville, 

Land overrun with Getchel birches, 
Far from any modern churches, 

Near the graveyard over yonder, 
First I saw the modern wonder, 

Called by some the Durham prophet. 
And I thought but little of it 

Till his eyes were fixed on mine 
By some chance, or by design. 

Which it was, I do not know, 
But I shook from crown to toe. 

(To this schoolhouse God had sent him, 
Nor the devil could prevent him) 

Soon he had me in control 
To the inmost of my soul, 

And I saw with marvel sight 
Things in such fantastic light, 



90 L. H. BEAL. 

Then his voice and gestures odd 
Seemed to me the ways of God, 

Telling me, a sinner bold, 

How to gain the Heavenly fold; 

While in threatening attitude 
In the background Satan stood, 

And across the Stygian tide 
Hell for me was gaping wide. 

Then I rose, w T ith trembling voice, 
And confessed his faith my choice; 

Gave to him the all I had, 
While he seemed so over glad. 

'Twas the watch my mother gave me, 
And I hoped this act would save me ; 

Loud he shouted my reward, 
"Hallelujah, praise the Lord!" 

Then he told me God advised 
I by him should be baptized — 

This to make salvation sure 
And my seat in Heaven secure — 

So I took his kind advice, 

Though they had to break the ice — 

Frozen then two feet or more 
Down by Shiloh's sacred shore; 



POEMS. 91 

Armed myself with fiery zeal, 
Lest my corpus should congeal. 

But I'm ready to advise 

Those who would through ice baptize; 

Nor invite consumptive chills — 
Demon chief of human ills — 

With rheumatic pains acute • 
Better don a diver's suit. 

Should a man thus treat his dog 
From a 4k faith" bedimmed with fog. 

He would answer to the law. 
Nor escape by crazy flaw. 

But bemoan in sad dismay, 
#S. F.— P. 0.— C. T.— A. 

God had waited all the ages 
Nor could find among the sages 

One to trust his revelation 
How to seek and find salvation 

Till he found this "Rose of Sharon" 
On a sand-blow bleak and barren. 

Now the shiek of this Sahara 
Poses as His Secretary. 

He's a marvel of surprise 

AYho can sway the great All Wise, 



92 L. II. BEAL. 

For this gift in most of cases 
Now is left with savage races. 

This is what he told us plainly 
While he preached of devils mainly; 

God had sent him as a proxy 
To upset old orthodoxy ; 

Other churches are a sham 

And their works not worth a damn. 

Then he teaches converts how 

Bread will come 'thout sweat of brow ; 

But to raise the grain, you bet, 
Some poor fellows toil and sweat. 

Then this prophet, as no other. 
Talks with God as with his brother- 
Talks with him of small affairs. 
Such as kicking over chairs. 

What to buy and what to sell. 
When and where to sink a well ; 

While a prophet now he poses 
Far above the seat of Moses. 

Faith is such fanatic talk. 
Shows his god a weathercock. 

And it seems, to hear him talk it. 
This god nestles in -his pocket. 



POEMS. 9& 

You'll perceive with ready ease 
Why I use the little gs. 

Should a demon lurk about, 
He with Bible drives him out; 

From his saintly, searching eye, 
Devils from his presence fly, 

And his voice, from Shiloh's throne, 
Shakes the world from zone to zone. 

No one is allowed to quiz, 
He is right because he IS ; 

Don't depend on education, 
Knows it all by inspiration; 

Arguments but lead to evils; 
Facts and figures are the devils; 

Still some harbored, ling 'ring doubts 
Canvassed all the ins and outs, 

For they feared the world's conclusion; 
"Victims of a strange delusion"; 

In his presence every hour, 
Then they felt the mystic power, 

But when by themselvese alone 
The hypnotic spell was gone; 

Then they think what he was taught, 
"Of the morrow take no thought." 



94 L. H. BEAL. 

Should the world by this be led 
Whence- would come our daily bread ? 

By his order in the "Tower," 
Prayers are dinning every hour, 

And the prayers are a demand 
For the ready cash in hand — 

Cash to finish up the silo 

To preserve the saints at Shiloh. 

Never caring for the morrow, 
"When of friends you cannot borrow, 

Many a man is brought to shame 
All in fake religion's name; 

But in spite of constant prayer 
And his faith in Heaven's care, 

He is often short of cash, 
Short of fish and hence of hash; 

While the doubters get a damnin' 
When there comes a pea-soup famine. 

Then a cloud portentious grew, 
Threat 'ning many a convert's view. 

For he claims our chance is slim 
Less we give our all to him, 

Nor consents to saving any 
Till they turn in every penny; 



POEMS. 95 



Thus they found at last 'twas true, 
Sandford preached for revenue. 

When they take this obligation 
He will take them on probation. 

But they must believe in him 
With his swarm of devils grim, 

Should they harbor shade of doubt 
Then he'll quickly turn them out. 

Then he claims to heal the sick, 
But 'tis all a bunco trick; 

Every cure that I have seen 
Was a case of chronic spleen. 

Other patients, I'm assured, 

Died soon after they were "cured." 

Once he raised a woman — dead — 
From a swoon upon her bed, 

But a doubting neighbor said 
'Twas a patient under-fed. 

When disease has laid us off — 
Fever, croup, or whooping cough, 

Or consumption pulmonary, 
Measles, gout or dysentery; 

Or diphtheria — worst of all, 
Since the day of Adam's fall — 



96 L. H. BEAL. 

All these ills and many more, 
Had I space to name them o'er, 

Every one is the expression 
Of a demon in possession; 

Then this prophet will adjure you 
He has power to quickly cure you. 

When the devils are about 
Turn your pockets inside out, 

Hallelujah ! sing and shout 
And they'll soon be put to rout. 

But some ask if this be true, 
As the sceptics often do. 

Unregenerates, as you style 'em, 
Why the need of that asylum? 

Others question how and whether 
This and that will hold together. 

Sad it be of our acumen, 
Limited to problems human, 

With no gift like this "divine" 
To make ten of only nine; 

Countless millions lost before 
Sandford came to ope' the door, 

And are doomed to Hades still, 
Less they swear by Beulah Hill; 



POEMS. 97 



Such his gospel creed, and then 
All his dupes must shout Amen! 

Hallelujah! with a vim, 

Else they will be damned by him. 

But to thinking some began, 
Though 'twas not the usual plan, 

As they thought, they wiser grew, 
Till it brought a change of view, 

Like a flash of lightning stroke, 
Falling giant elm or oak, 



The hypnotic spell was broke 
And the thinking dupe awoke 



While he gathers without cost 
Only what some fool has lost. 

Hallelujahs will not grow 
Corn or cotton without hoe; 

Singing, shouting and baptizing 
Is too cheap for fertilizing; 

A good harvest to secure 

Needs the hoe with some manure; 

Honest labor serves the Lord 
With abundance as reward; 

I have noticed 'mong the facts, 
This new gospel hates the axe, 



L. H. BEAL. 

They would rather hungry go 
Than the weedy crop to hoe, 

Beg their living on their knees, 
And on "flowery beds of ease," 

Straight for Heaven would embark, 
Tagged with Sandford's private mark. 

There's a maxim, I am told, 
Full two hundred centuries old; 

When a man will play the shirk, 
Living on his neighbor's work, 

Though he pious be and suave, 
Should be made to work or starve ; 

Following their favorite text, 
"Take no thought of morrows next,' 

"Would the pauper race enlarge 
To a bankrupt public charge. 

His theology is cast 

In the moulds of the "Dead Past," 

And his prophesies all run 
Tow'rd the setting of the sun, 

With his back against the ray 
Of the Orb of coming Day, 

Nor dare he to watch its rise, 
Lest it daze his ghoulish eyes, 



POEMS. 99 



For his soul is fettered fast 
To the misty, mouldy Past. 

With his "demon" creed in view, 
And allowing it as true, 

He's a prophet sore distressed 
Of a demon self-possessed. 

Put a question fair and straight 
To this modern prophet great 

(Measured by his own conceit) 
Then you'll see his ruling trait, 

If he cannot well explain 
So his faith will be the gain, 

Then his keen prophetic eye 
Will a lurking "demon" spy 

In your puzzling HOW and WHY, 
And 'twill be his sole reply. 

Thus I've tried with homely rhyme 
To expose this moral crime. 

Superstition holds the sway 
With a multitude today. 

Of all fakes the world has cursed, 
Pious ones are much the worst. 

Haste the day when Reason's axe 
Rids the world of gospel quacks. 



100 L. H. BEAL. 

Miracles grow less and less 
Since the age of printing press, 

Seldom now the great First Cause 
For a saint suspends His laws; 

This a sample of the feat, 
Better 'twere if obsolete. 

*Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. 



THE "BREECHY" COW'S FIRST WIRE FENCE. 

Sam Jones' cows broke through the fence 

Beside the tempting clover, 
And gorged themselves with Simon's grass 

And "podged" the field all over. 

Our crew were busy picking corn 

And business then was rushin', 
But Charley stopped to fix the fence 

While 'Lias did the cussin'. 

He could not fix it very well, 

The "stuff" was old and rotten, 
And then the taste of Simon's grass 

The cows had not forgotten. 

When Sunday came the cows supposed 

We all had gone to meeting, 
And straightway went for Simon's grass, 

Their old offence repeating. 



POEMS. 101 

But we were working on the corn 

To haul it early Monday, 
While gospel people sang their psalms 

And took good care of Sunday. 

When 'Lias saw the cows in there 

To get their Sunday dinner, 
The way he quoted Scripture texts 

Would frighten any sinner. 

He then and there made solemn vow, 

If he should live the morrow, 
He'd make a fence for Jones' cows 

To fill their heart with sorrow. 

When Monday came, true to his word, 

He made the old cart rattle, 
And took some wire he had in store 

For just such "breechy" cattle. 

With axes, hammer, posts and wire, 

He started forth to battle, 
Though fierce the fray we won that day 

Against those thieving cattle. 

I watched them as they came along 

And looked the new fence over, 
They shook their heads and whisked their tails 

And snuffed at Simon's clover. 



Then up spoke one, which, I presume 
To be the chief offender, 

"Our jig is up I plainly see, 
We might as well surrender; 



102 L. H. BEAL. 

"We can't get through that devilish fence, 

No use of undertaking, 
But, sister cows, I swear to you, 

'Tis none of Jones' making. 

"So we must grub these barren knolls 

Or go without our dinner, 
But we shall give but little milk, 

And that a darned sight thinner." 



TRUSTEE FOR GOD. 

Oh, the like we seldom see ! 
Self-appointed God's trustee. 

He proclaims in thunder notes 
Who the sheep and who the goats ; 

Judging for the great I Am 
Who to save and who to damn. 

And you'd think to hear him tell, 
He's the keys to Heaven and Hell; 

And again in that same metre, 
He's supplanted old St. Peter. 

But in all the earth's broad land, 
Few are found with Shiloh's brand. 

But in all these claims of his, 
Now and then he makes a miss, 



POEMS. 103 

And in water quest they say 
Shiloh's prophet lost his way. 

Then he tried the wizzard trick, 
With his mystic, crotched stick, 

And the contest with the " Ghost" 
Proved the wizzard knew the most. 

Digging where the stick did show, 
Aqua pura soon did flow. 

Though the Holy Ghostly crew 
Did the very best they knew, 

Prophets such but folly show 
Venturing where they do not know. 

Those who barter common sense 
For a faniced recompense 

Promised by the Sand Hill "Ghost" 
Prove themselves teetotal lost. 

In the race for fame and pelf 
History oft repeats itself. 

All have read of Ahab's rule — 
Prototype of Shiloh's "school";— 

And the preachers oft relate 
What was Ahab's final fate. 

Trusting what his prophets said, 
By a lying spirit led, 



104 L. H. BEAL. 



Israel's king led in the fray 
Met his foe and lost the day; 

Fell the foremost in the strife, 
Losing honor, fame and life. 

This, a lesson to the wise, 
Trusting dogmas built on lies; 

But remember Ahab's fate, 

Ye who'd enter Shiloh's "Gate." 

Little use for human brains 

When such "prophets" hold the reins. 



0, RESTRAIN NOT THE TEAR. 

O, restrain not the tear that in silence is shed, 
When our loved ones are called to the realms of the 

dead; 
Let it swell in the eye when the curfew shall toll, 
'Tis the dew-drop that sorrow distills from the soul. 

W T hen the friends of our youth shall have yielded 

their breath, 
On the shores of that river now sacred to death, 
There the dove of affection shall then build a nest, 
And their virtues keep bright by the warmth of her 

breast. 

When the last rays of sunset shall melt in the wave, 
And the moonbeams alone shall illumine the grave, 



POEMS. 105 

Then each soul, like an eagle, triumphant and free, 
Shall extend in its glory a welcome to thee. 

Mid the murmurs of streams and the rustling of 

trees, 
AVe shall fancy their voices are borne on the breeze ; 
And the night bird that tunes its soft lay to the sky, 
Will remind us again that their spirits are nigh. 

As the roses expand, at the kiss of a shower, 
When the sun is obscured and the clouds darkly 

lower, 
Thus the bright flower of Hope shall revive o'er the 

bier, 
When 'tis guarded by eyes that are dimmed by a 

tear. 

The half-opened lilies in the paths where we walk, 
We admire for a moment, then pluck from the stalk; 
So the glories of youth are laid low in their bloom, 
And the budding of genius shall cease in the tomb. 

Like the meteor flashing along the dark sky, 
They can flourish but briefly, then wither and die; 
'Tis the fiat of God and the boon that he gave, 
That each cradle shall rock on the turf of a grave. 

May their slumbers be light on the evergreen shore, 
Where the day-dreams of life shall disturb them no 

more; 
When the cypress shall droop and no longer may 

bloom, 
Still the tear-drop may brighten the flowers on the 

tomb. 



106 L. H. BEAL. 

Then restrain not the tear that affection may shed, 
When thy footsteps by God to the bier shall be led; 
From the eye that is dim let it silently roll, 
J Tis the dew-drop that sorrow distills from the soul. 

— L. C. Bateman. 
Auburn. 



"MOTHER'S PICTURE." 

You look askance at the picture, 
That hangs on my parlor wall, 

Of a woman old and wrinkled, 
Of a woman bowed and tall. 

You see the lips that are faded, 
You see^the white in her hair, 

You see the eyes that are shaded 
With a look of grief and care. 

You see the dress old fashioned 
That forms of the picture a part, 

And you wonder that I should place it 
With my cherished works of art. 

I see the toil that bowed her, 

I see the grief and care, 
That shaded her eyes with sorrow 

And whitened her raven hair. 

I see her nights of watching, 

I see her days of pain, 
I see the blighting sorrow 

That almost crazed her brain. 



POEMS. 107 

I see the dress old fashioned 

That forms of the picture a part, 

And I see 'neath its folds uncomely, 
A loving mother's heart. 

— L. E. Beal. 



ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 

Backward, turn backward, Time, in your flight, 
Make me a child again, just for tonight ! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
Take me again to your heart, as of yore. 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair, 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Backward, flow backward, swift tide of years ! 
I am weary of toil, I am weary of tears ; 
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, 
Take them, and give me my childhood again ! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay, 
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away, 
Weary of sowing for others to reap ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
Mother, mother ! my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed and faded, our faces between; 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain, 
Long I tonight for your presence again; 
Come from the silence so long and so deep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 



108 L. H. BEAL. 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 
No love like mother-love ever has shown; 
No other worship abides and endures 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient as yours; 
None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world weary brain; 
Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old; 
Let it fall over my forehead tonight, 
Shielding my eyes from the flickering light; 
For O ! with its sunny-edged shadows once more, 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; 
Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Mother, dear mother ! the years have been long 
Since last I was hushed by your lullaby song; 
Sing them again — to my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream; 
Clasped to your arms in a loving embrace, 
With your soft, light lashes just sweeping my face, 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

— Mrs. Elizabeth Akers Allen. 



BRYANISM FROM THE G. 0. P'S. POINT OF 
VIEW. 

I look upon this Bryanism 

With such a fearful dread, 
'Tis wholly from the patriot view 

I wish to have it said. 



POEMS. 109 



What Bryanism really means, 
Our business men should know. 

For should this dreaded 'ism win 
'Twould be their overthrow. 

His neighbors say it is a fact, 
He'll neither smoke nor chew, 

To have such 'ism forced on us, 
Ah ! me, 'twill never do. 

And then he'll never touch a glass 
Of whiskey, wine or beer, 

Now only think a President 
With habits so severe. 

With such fanatic abstinence 
AVhat are the ugly facts? 

The revenue would sink from view, 
In spite of income tax. 

And then he clings with such a grip 
To what the daddies taught, 

He can not be McKinleyized, 
Persuaded, sold or bought. 

What Jefferson the fogy said 

Was but an idle dream, 
But Bryanism builds on it 

An Anarchistic scheme. 

Then Bryan is pig-headed in 
AVhat e'er he claims is just, 

And panders to the cheaper crowd, 
Against the worthy trust. 



110 L. H. BExUj. 

This 'ism must be set upon, 

A President must be 
Chameleon like and flexible, 

To serve the G. O. P. 

And then, Ah ! me, the income tax, 

I see the thing a brewin', 
With some new judge we cannot budge, 

They'll legalize our ruin. 

Unlike our own McKinley when 
Arrayed in Hanna's blouse, 

Forgetting all his silver talk 
When he was in the House. 

And swallow his official words 

Before the ink is dry, 
And wash them down without a frown 

With Prohibition rye. 

The greenbacks now are safe in pound, 
Retired with Sherman Johnny, 

While bankers' notes our party votes 
The nation "honest money." 

While Bryanism has the power 
To sway the vulgar masses, 

'Tis but the scheme of anarchists 
To raid the money classes. 

McKinley and prosperity 

We'll shout with a hosannah, 

While bulls and bears with millionaires, 
Will draw their checks for Hanna. 



POEMS. Ill 

THE CITY REPORTER AND THE RUSTIC 
RHYMSTER. 

The following poetry is in answer to this clipping 
from the Lewiston Journal, and is respectfully dedi- 
cated to the reporter who penned this bright para- 
graph : 

''Driving on the grounds Wednesday morning, 
the first man to brighten the near foreground was 
Leonard Beal. You know Leonard Beal, the poet 
of South West Bend? Leonard was there strolling 
retrospectively about in the crowd, a long linen 
duster floating backward on the breezes; a weather 
beaten old straw hat atilt on his grey fringe; and 
himself chewing a wisp of straw and the calm cud of 
contentment at one and the same time." 

A reporter lank and hungry 

Dropped down on a country "fair," 

Hot with zeal to serve his master 
And to earn his dinner there. 

Now this scribbler, as no other, 

Has built up a lasting fame, 
Drawing on distorted fancy 

Where the facts w r ere not to blame. 

So prolific is his fancy 

When he pens a small affair, 
He will count a thousand people 

With a hundred scarcely there; 

See the steeples of a city, 

With a marvelous gift divine, 
Through the mountains intervening 

In a straight, unbroken line. 



112 L. H. BEAL. 

Soon he spies a local rhymster, 
Careless dress and visage grim, 

And instead of sheep and cattle, 
He decides to tackle him ; 

And he puts his guileless victim 
In a garb so ancient shown, 

You would swear 'twas Rip Van Winkle, 
Rather than a friend you've known. 

With a straw hat, old and faded, 

He adorns the rustic bard, 
Though the autumn day was chilly 

And the wind was blowing hard; 

Wraps him in a linen duster, 

Shocking to Dame Fashion's law, 

Then he makes his fancied victim 
Chew a jig upon a straw. 

Now, young man, stand up and listen 

While I cite the moral law, 
"Thou shalt never bear false witness 

Either with the pen or jaw." 

We were there the day aforesaid, 

And on oath will testify 
What you said of hat and duster 

Was a very stupid lie. 

That bard's hat was a black fur one — 
All in fashion, too, by gosh ! — 

While the coat you called a duster 
Was a stylish mackintosh. 



POEMS. 113 



Though eccentric in his habits, 
He will never chew a straw, 

But will chew a venal scribbler, 
Eather than appeal to law. 

Is there profit in the business 

When the facts you thus bedaub? 

Serving only truth and honor, 
Do you fear to lose your job? 

Humbug has its limitations 
"When it will no longer pay, 

With the truth at last discovered, 
Scribblers such have had their day. 



AN APOLOGY TO A LADY REPORTER. 

Beg your pardon, gentle lady, 

Didn't once the truth suspect, 

Thought of course 'twas one those fellows 

Rate themselves the world's elect. 

Makes me tired when I see them 

Torturing a simple fact, 
How with verbiage they'll inflate it, 

Or with emptiness contract. 

It reminds me of a merchant, 

Long ago to judgment gone, 
Who would sell three grades of syrup 

From the self-same barrel drawn. 



114 L. H. BEAL. 

I am ready to believe you, 
Malice ne'er was your intent, 

But you simply penned the story 
Of a friend on mischief bent. 

"With this simple explanation 
We are surely put to rights, 

But I've business with that fellow 
Who in mischief so delights. 

If again with mischief laden 
He would fool you as before, 

Take his story with a discount 
And he'll try the game no more. 



OUR CHRISTMAS TREE. 

Ah ! Here comes the welcome postman, 
Wonder what he brings for me, 

Marked in care of my initials 

For the children's Christmas tree, 

In a sack of strange construction, 

Like I never saw before. 
When 'tis full and running over, 

It will hold a little more. 

Forty cents it cost for postage, 
By the cancelled stamp I see; 

'Tis a package, I will bet you, 
From my old friend, Santa C. 



POEMS. 11& 

Christmas day, they say he visits 

Every clime beneath the sun, 
Bringing presents for the children, 

For he loves them every one. 

He's the little ones' ideal, 

For in gifts is his delight, 
Black or white or copper colored, 

All are precious in his sight. 

But perhaps I'm episoding, 

As I'm very apt to do, 
While the children gather round me, 

Anxious for a closer view. 

Bless the darlings, though they sometimes 
Din us with their joyous strife, 

Still they give us hope and courage 
To endure the ills of life. 

But the package we must open, 

That its contents we may see, 
While the hands are ready waiting 

To adorn the Christmas tree. 

First of all we find a necktie, 

Colors of a brilliant hue, 
Made of silk and right in fashion, 

And 'tis marked for Henry Drew. 

Now 'tis something rather heavy, 
'Tis what fixed the postage rates, 

Marked for Master Henry Brewster, 
Ah! a pair of fancy skates. 



116 



L. H. BEAL. 

Now a doll all made of rubber, 
Blushes on her dimple cheek, 

Marked for Annie. If you sqeeze her 
She will answer with a squeak. 

Here's a jacknife — double bladed — 
With a handle made of horn ; 

Hope 'twill never cut tobacco — 

Henry Smith's as true's you're born. 

Next a trumpet marked for Allie, 
Fine a one as he could wish, 

Now he'll mount his little dog cart, 
Make believe he's peddling fish. 

Ho ! A pair of specks for someone, 
Oh, dear me, we're growing old. 

Bless her soul, they're marked for gamma, 
And the bows are solid gold. 

Last we find a lot of candy. 

Marked I see for every one, 
So we'll do as Santa tells us, 

And our Christmas time is done. 

Oft I think how gifts so easy 
Fill the little hearts with gW, 

And I feel to thank the Christian 

Who first planned the Christmas tree. 



THE BONELESS FISH. 

Once on a time I chanced to read 

A Yankee grocer's ad. 
Among the things he told us of 

A boneless fish he had. 



POEMS. 117 

I read it in the "Gospel Times," 

A pious neighbor took, 
And he believed it, ever word, 

True as the Sacred Book. 

The fakirs have discovered how 

To catch the underwise, 
And corral them like herded sheep 

While feeding them with lies. 

Now I'm a lover of fish hash, 

And always gave it praise, 
Such as my mother used to make 

In my young boyhood days. 

But, oh, the bones ! the dreadful bones ! 

They always made me mad, 
And I forgot my Sunday school 

When mother cooked a shad. 

So I resolved on boneless fish, 

Whate'er might be the cost, 
No longer would I run such risk, 

I feared my soul was lost ! 

And when I got a sample lot 

Done up in bunches small. 
So carefully I looked it o'er 

But found no bones at all. 

But when 'twas cooked — that boneless fish 

Made into breakfast hash — 
The bones appeared and T had lost 

My temper and my cash. 



118 L. H. BEAL. 

Henceforth I'll fight that fakir race 

With holy zeal sublime, 
They never can withstand a charge 

Of double shotted rhyme. 

Don't take a fakir at his word, 
If you would justice do him, 

But turn his wares all inside out 
And as a critic view him. 

And then I pondered on the fish — 
I pondered long and deep — 

With the result, to tell the truth, 
I wiser felt a heap. 

The lessons got from fakir saints 

Are quite expensive ones, 
But 'tis the schooling wisdom gives 

To teach us simpletons. 

And from such lessons one might preach, 

Had he the gift divine, 
And save full many a buncoed dupe 

Who bows at Baal's shrine. 

When charlatans with pious cant 
Come whining round for cash 

To build a temple for the Lord, 
I think about that hash. 

When demagogues with brazen tongue 

Proclaim their only wish, 
Is to promote the nation's weal, 

I think of boneless fish. 



POEMS. 1 1 9 



"With fakirs great and fakirs small, 
The times are getting yellow, 

It seems to be the game of all 
To beat the other fellow. 



MY NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS. 

I have made my resolutions 
For this year of ninety-one, 

And an autographic record 

Will confirm what I have done; 

And among the resolutions, 

If a friend by chance should look, 

He will find I've sworn off swearing, 
"With my hand upon the Book. 

Change of views may be a virtue, 
And our duty well as right, 

When along the line of progress 
We perceive a clearer light; 

And the man who's read and traveled 
In this world of light and mist, 

And has never changed opinions, 
Is a hopeless egotist. 

Some from habit are backsliders 
From inherent cussedness; 

Other's lack of moral courage 
Often brings them sore distress. 



120 L. H. BEAL. 

But with such I've little patience, 
For they are a moral blight. 

And the world has made more progress 
Had they never seen its light. 

Then I think what might be written 

As my truthful epitaph 
By some crank who knew my weakness 

And desired to raise a laugh. 

"Here lies Mr. Good Intentions — 
Ponder as ye pass this way — 

Died from broken resolutions, 
Which he swallowed every day." 

Sink or swim I'll keep my promise, 
Nor will swell backslider's ranks, 

Of all evils that I'm dreading, 
None so great as rhyming cranks; 

But there are some avocations 
From this day I mean to shirk, 

And hereafter I will labor 

Where no swearing demons lurk. 

And I'll hire some other fellow 
With no promises to break, 

And avoid the provocation 
When I have so much at stake. 

I will never touch a funnel, 

Smoking foul with pitchy soot, 

But will stand the smoke, and shiver 
Until Gabriel sounds his toot. 



POEMS. 121 

For I know whereof I'm speaking, 

'Tis experience makes us wise, 
When we'd join the lengths of funnel 

Which were never matched in size. 

All the doors and windows open, 

Letting in the winter cold, 
With the children all a fretting, 

While the wife begins to scold. 

Soot a spreading on the carpet, 
While they track it on the floor; 

It will wake the swearing microbes 
Which have latent been before. 

Just imagine you were in it, 

Or old Job himself were there, 
Do you think you could go through it 

And not vocalize a swear? 

There are other avocations 

Which a model saint should shun, 

And I'll mention them in season, 
In the style I have begun. 



HAM BROOKS. 

(Born June 21, 1809; died Aug. 14th, 1898) 
The Old Time Schoolmaster. 

Ham Brooks — have you ever heard of? 

Maybe not, perhaps you have. 
As a teacher, my ideal — 

Sympathetic, stern and brave. 



122 L. H. BEAL. 

There was something in his manner 

Very hard to be defined; 
But his power o'er his scholars 

Showed a strong, hypnotic mind. 

When the scholars heard an order 
From his measured basso voice, 

Instantly they gave attention, 
For it was their only choice. 

Rigid were his rules of order, 
And enforced without a flaw ; 

None dared risk his stern displeasure, 
For his will to them was law. 

Though he had the old time ruler, 
Seldom did he have occasion, 

On a disobedient pupil, 

To enforce such moral suasion. 

But one treatment was sufficient — 
Too severe you think, perhaps — 

But a perfect panacea, 

And they never had relapse. 

I have seen him cow a bully 

Turned out from another school; 

Ignorant, coarse and full of swagger — 
Fit companion for the mule. 

Ham Brooks looked the braggart over, 

Citing him the Decalogue 
With such force and power magnetic, 

That he wilted like a dog. 



POEMS. 123 

Let me tell it, to his credit, 

That young man was born again ; 
He became a model scholar, 

And an honored son of Maine. 

There were "deestricts" in the country 
Where the boys were large and stout, 

And their one supreme ambition 
Was to put the master out. 

And of this they loudly boasted, 

Studying mischief more than books; 
But on Ham they never tried it, 

For they did not like his looks. 

Pope was Ham's most favorite author 

For the higher grammar class; 
How he'd scan the flowing measure 
" As the sentence we would parse. 

"Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mind 

Sees God in the clouds, or hears Him in the wind, 

His soul proud science never taught to stray 

Far as the solar walk or milky way. 

Yet simple nature to his hope has given — 

Behind the cloud topped hills and humbler heaven — 

Some safer world in depth of wood embraced 

Some happy island in the watery waste, 

Where slaves once more their native land behold. 

No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold; 

But thinks admitted to that equal sky, 

His faithful dog shall bear him company." 

Unlike many would-be poets 
Of his own and later times, 



124 L. H. BEAL. 

Pope has never been found guilty 

Slaughtering sense to help his rhymes. 

Heaven's primal law was order, 
Thus said Pope, his favorite poet; 

This first law was his ideal, 

And he made his scholars know it. 

Not a whisper in the school room 
As they conned their lessons o'er, 

And when called for recitation, 
They must tiptoe on the floor. 

Those were times of spelling matches, 

And his daughter, Adeline, 
Was a favorite with the spellers 

And a rival, too, of mine. 

Webster's speller was the standard — 
Roosevelt was not teaching then — 

And the followers of his order 
Would have found the crazy pen. 

Time has wrought some marvelous changes, 
Closely bordering the sublime; 

And show me a sage professor 
Who'd go back to Chaucer's time. 

Haste the time when one sign only 

Represents a vocal sound; 
Then increase the signs in number 

Till they go the vocal round. 

Spelling would be automatic, 
No excuse for being wrong; 



POEMS. 125 



Sign and sound assimilated 
Just as easy as a song. 

Then to read a foreign language, 
We'll pronounce it as we spell; 

Saving toil and worry, getting 
Sounds the letters never tell. 

But I see I have been drifting 
From the subject of my rhyme, 

So I'll drop the spelling question 
Till a more convenient time. 

After many years of teaching, 
Brooks retired with honors high; 

And it seemed almost a funeral 
"When he said his last goodby. 

Firm and steady in his purpose, 
Pandering to no moral crime, 

Constant in a just endeavor — 
Model teacher of his time. 

Youth for action, age for council, 
Is a wise proverbial saw, 

And he won his reputation 
In compliance with this law. 

Even age has pleasant fancies, 
Which to youth is all unknown; 

By the law of compensation, 
Each has pleasures all its own. 

Our last meeting, he was boasting 
Of his eighty years or more; 



126 L. H. BEAL. 

But seemed fresh and fair in feature, 
As some fifty years before. 

Students now days have their "ponies," 
But the stubborn fact remains : 

None have ever yet succeeded 
With a scanty share of brains. 

Could I live my school life over, 

I'd decline it as a rule; 
But 'twould be a great temptation, 

If Ham Brooks would teach the school. 

Lives of such men teach us wisdom — 
Pardon me for borrowing rhyme : 

"And departing leave behind them, 
Footprints on the sands of time." 

"Wisest men have had their failings — 
Roosevelt, Lincoln, Grant, or Penn — 

But to think our Ham Brooks had them; 
I could not believe it then. 

"E'en the sun has spots of darkness 
On its radiant front," they say; 

"And the clock that never goeth, 
Speaks correctly twice a day." 

This last verse is plagiarism, 

But it fitted in so well, 
That I yielded to the tempter; 

But I hope you'll never tell. 

In this age Iconoclastic, 
Idol smashers lead the van, 



POEMS. 127 



But they leave us the ideal 
And dismiss the charlatan. 

Vines will climb the nearest object- 
Apple, pear tree, plum or peach— 

And the worship in our natures 
Clings to that within its reach. 



MORE NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS. 

I, resolutions, too, have made 

For nineteen hundred one, 
I have resolved to do this year 

Just as I've always done. 

At the beginning of each year, 
Such vows I'm bound to make — 

Vows that will always keep themselves, 
For they are hard to break. 

I'll do mankind as they do me, 
(Of course I'll do them first), 

And thus obey the golden rule, 
Though they may do their worst. 

I have resolved to swear no more 

When I've no inclination, 
But such resolve is null and void 

Should I have provocation. 

Tobacco habits I forswear, 
I'll neither smoke nor chew it, 



128 L. H. BEAL. 

But if by chance I should repent 
Quite likely I should do it. 

I'll love the ladies just the same, 

For I was made that way, 
But I can take the dogs along 

To keep them safe at bay. 

I'll never taste a "boneless fish" 
And know what I'm about, 

There 're always bones in those I eat, 
They're never made without. 

I'll pay my bills when I'm compelled- 
This is the way I view it — 

And if there's fretting to be done, 
My creditors may do it. 

That misfit, sooty stovepipe game 

I think I understand, 
If things go wrong I pray the Lord 

To lend a helping hand. 

So with the help of Providence, 
My job is well completed, 

And when he gave me timely aid, 
I never was defeated. 

So I'm resolved to credit Him 
For what He's done for me, 

I never lose an honest game 
When He's the referee. 



P. Beal. 



North Abington, Mass. 



POEMS. 129 

A DYSPEPTIC DREAM. 

As I lay in drowsy stupor 

On my couch, not long ago, 
All at once a sense of danger 

Seemed to set me all aglow; 

And there seemed a sickening odor 
All pervading through my room, 

While were frequent crimson Hashes 
Adding to the fearful gloom; 

Beasts, with strangely human faces, 

Howling at my chamber door; 
Owls and buzzards congregating, 

Lizzards crawling on my floor. 

Was the final day approaching, 
And the judgment close at hand? 

Did I hear the waking echo 

Of the trumpet through the land? 

Then I thought perhaps it might be 

I was some hypnotic dupe 
Gathered into Shiloh's corral, 

And a "star" in Sandford's troupe, 

For I saw a herd of "demons" 

Rise from Shiloh's sacred sand, 
Dodging broomsticks, mops and bibles, 

Hurled at them on every hand, 

While the "demons" turned upon them, 

And I heard the leader say, 
"How your passions boil and sizzle, 

Since your sins were washed away. 



130 L. H. BEAL. 

"You old fraud who gull the simple 
With your claim of gifts divine, 

Teaching 'tis a crowning virtue 
To believe twice four is nine." 

Then up spoke the great apostle, 
From his high, bald headed tower, 

"Damned be he who doubts that Shiloh 
Is the seat of Heaven's power." 

Then he waved his hand in triumph, 
While a solemn stillness fell, 

And the "demons" all w T ere banished 
To the depths of Shiloh 's hell. 

Then I quaked with dread forebodings 
That my turn was coming next, 

For I feared my comic doggerel 
Had the great apostle vexed. 

How this vision would have ended, 
I have not the faintest gleam, 

For the breakfast bell awoke me 
And I found 'twas all a dream. 

If you're ever lost in dreamland 

Where such grewsome monsters creep, 

Spare the festal midnight supper 
And serene shall be your sleep. 



THE EDITOR DECLINES. 

I wanted to review the "tract" 
That pictured Shiloh 's hell; 

The editor objects at once — 
He does not like the smell. 



POEMS. 131 

Nor do I blame the fellow much 

For sparing Shiloh's church; 
The more you stir up certain things, 

The worse will be the smirch. 

But I object with all my soul 
To see folks dogged to Heaven, 

A sorry lot of saints they'll be, 
Who only there are driven. 

The scamp who dons the saintly air 

And sanctimonious face 
By Shiloh's creed, admitted there, 

Would be quite out of place. 

Amidst the scenes of Paradise 

He'd be a lonesome creature, 
And sigh for those forbidden things 

Adapted to his nature. 

'Twixt fiat saints and genuine, 

A mighty gulf is fixed; 
Nor can the false pass to the true, 

Their creeds cannot be mixed. 

A blind assent to dogma's bid 

Can show but little merit, 
And broader minds with living truths 

Will neither love nor fear it. 

The man who does no evil from 

The dread of penal laws, 
Would swear by even Shiloh's creed 

To 'scape the devil's claws. 



132 L. H. BEAL. 

The starving nag, urged on by whip, 
Not worth a dozen groats, 

Is quite a different animal 
Well fed on hay and oats. 

Eternal measures all gauged. 

With level, scale and screen. 
The measures given our hell or heaven, 

With all the grades between. 



BETSY MERRILL. 

Have you heard of Betsy Merrill — 
Betsy in her palmy days? 

Though she was a maiden lady, 
Still the folks all gave her praise. 

Yes, she was a maiden lady, 
Not a crusty, sour old maid, 

Many a chance she'd had to marry, 
But of men she was afraid. 

Many an hour I've sat and listened, 
While her story made me glad, 

How she firmly had rejected 
Scores of offers that she'd had. 

Every autumn, I remember, 
In my early schoolboy years, 

They would send for Betsy Merrill, 
With her needle and her shears. 



POEMS. 133 

And she'd cut and baste our garments, 
(How the homespun cloth she praised), 

Mother spun the yarn and wove it 
From the wool that father raised. 

'Twas before the days of shoddy 

And before the tailored dude, 
When the boys were taught good manners, 

Never swore, nor smoked, nor chewed. 

And my boyhood never questioned 

How it otherwise could be, 
She was Nature's special object 

In the grand economy. 

Betsy knew the neighbors' failings, 
Though she gave their virtues praise, 

And she often made suggestions 

How they might improve their ways. 

Still one thought reigned in my bosom, 

All too sad to trace with pen, 
If she should repent and marry, 

Who would make my breeches then! 

She was tall (above the average), 

Slim of build, with hazel eyes, 
And I knew in spite her freckles, 

She was good and she was wise. 

Never once did busy scandal, 

Seeking victims where it could, 
Dare to tackle Betsy Merrill 

To defame her maidenhood. 



134 L. H. BEAL. 

And she was a Christian woman, 
Ever kind to the distressed, 

Seeking out the poor and needy, 
And I know her soul is blessed; 

For I witnessed her baptismal, 
As I stood upon the shore, 

And I wondered why they did it, 
When she was so good before. 

As I near the silent Border, 

Bowed with sorrow, toil and strife. 

Oft I think of Betsy Merrill 
And her noble. Christian life. 



THE PAUPER SEER OF LEWISTON. 

Old Harmon Blanchard was a man 

Entitled to renown, 
Although in his declining years 

He "fell upon the town." 

He helped to dedicate the house 

Provided for the poor, 
The first the town had ever owned, 

They auctioned them before. 

Why he became a public charge, 

You only may surmise, 
He earned his bread until he lost 

The sight of both his eyes. 



POEMS. 135 

It was a sorry day for him, 

And gnawed upon his pride, 
But all his kin that cared for him 

Had passed beyond the Tide. 

He was a person much inclined 

To pious meditation, 
And oft would sing such good old tunes 

As "Webb" and " Coronation. ' ' 

How often have I heard him sing 

At visitors' request, 
And put the "Cres" and "Forte" in 

Where it would sound the best. 

Then Harmon had a wondrous gift, 

Some said the devil was in it, 
You'd ask him what o'clock it was, 

He'd tell you to a minute. 

And many came who'd heard his fame 

From places far away, 
And marvelled how this blind old man 

Could tell the time of day. 

Forward and back with measured time, 
From morn till night he'd rock, 

Much like the swinging pendulum 
Of our old "Thomas" clock. 

And often would they question him 

How he could see when blind, 
He'd answer in a quiet way, 

It came into his mind. 



136 L. H. BEAL. 

The doctors were dumbfounded, and 

The wisest were at bay, 
While Harmon kept on rocking, and 

Told them the time of day. 

Lucky for him he did not live 
In Salem witchcraft times, 

When such a gift the statutes made 
The worst of human crimes. 

And many years have passed away 

Since he was laid at rest, 
And if the righteous have reward, 

I know his soul is blest. 

Though science has made mighty strides, 

'Tis very plain to me 
The wisest cannot tell us yet 

How sightless men can see. 



MY FIRST "GO-TO-MEETIN' " SHOES. 

Long years ago when I was young, 

In years from five to ten, 
On Sundays we to meeting went, 

There were no churches then. 

We had to walk three miles or more, 

Across to Penleyville, 
Where stood the house close by the road 

That leads to Barker's Mill. 



POEMS. 137 

We had to cross a river too, 

(The Androscoggin wide), 
But then I knew when father rowed, 

No danger could betide. 

That river still is flowing on 

To mingle with the sea, 
But I've so changed it gives no sign 

Of ever knowing me. 

But I am drifting from the thing 

I most desired to tell — 
About myself and cowhide shoes 

That fitted me so well. 

Old Taylor Lovering made those shoes 

From hide that Holland tanned, 
He also made the last and pegs, 

And did it all "by hand." 

We country boys in those old times, 

Though oft our feet we'd bruise, 
For meetings and for funerals 

Would only don our shoes. 

I'd tie mine up in handkerchief, 

To keep them clean and dry 
Until we neared the holy place, 

Beyond the field of rye. 

Then down I'd sit all out of sight 

On some clean, grassy spot, 
While father tied the leather strings 

With double shoe bow-knot. 



138 



L. H. BEAL. 



Not many know the mystic power 

Imparted by those shoes, 
The while I walked the sacred aisle 

Between the rows of pews. 

The preacher read the sacred hymn, 

The choir at once arose, 
While zealous sisters joined in song 

With minor tremoloes. 

But in the graveyard close at hand, 
Those worshipers now lay, 

And none there be who gather there 
We recognize today. 

The question oft obtrudes itself, 
In spite my earnest chide : 

Will all these people meet again 
Beyond the Great Divide? 

The preachers all can demonstrate 

That this is even so, 
But while I've heard their arguments, 

I still would like to know 

The name of him who built this house, 

On monument we trace; 
He was the sire of many sons, 

An honor to his race. 

I love to wander by that way, 
Now I am bowed with age, 

To meditate upon the past 
And scan the marble page. 



POEMS. 139 

HOGSBACK MOUNTAIN. 

Hogsback Mountain, by the river, 

Steepest hill we ever climbed. 
Hogsback has a weird story, 

But we've never seen it rhymed. 

Here in retrospective fancy, 

On the wings of time we glide, 
Where the brave Pejepscot warrior 

Wooed and won his dusky bride. 

But we'll pass the brave Pejepscot, 

In his paint and feather rig, 
For we've quite another story — 

All about a crazy pig. 

'Twas about the time that Miller 

With prophetic eye could see 
That the final day of judgment 

Was to come in "forty- three." 

O'er the eastern slope of Hogsback, 

Neighbor Merrill tilled the sod, 
But he took no stock in Miller, 

Or in Miller's demon god. 

"What's the sense of Miller's preaching 

What the angels do not know? 
Better serve the Lord," says Merrill, 

"Caring for the folks below." 

Merrill had a fancy porker 

Which he purchased in the spring, 

And he counted on the dollars 

That his butchered hog would bring. 



140 L. H. BEAL. 

But one morning in midwinter, 
As he went his early round, 

With the piggy's early breakfast, 
Only empty sty he found. 

Now to say he was dumbfounded 
Would be putting it too mild, 

While he shook himself and wondered 
Whether he was crazy wild. 

Strayed or stolen, was the question 
Uppermost in Merrill's mind, 

While he pondered and he wondered 
Whether pig he'd ever find. 

Till at last in snow he stumbled 
On the missing porker's track 

Straight up o'er Hogsback Mountain, 
With no sign of turning back. 

Down the steep, steep side it led him, 
Which we've mentioned once before, 

And straight onward without turning 
To the Androscoggin shore. 

Straight o'er ice the pig had hurried 
To a winter breathing hole 

Not unlike the scripture story, 
With the devils in control. 

Consternation reigned triumphant, 
Sinners soon would come to grief, 

Millerites said 'twas a judgment 
Sent for Merrill's unbelief. 



POEMS. 141 

Others laid it all to witchcraft, 

They had known such things before, 

"While they hurried for the horseshoe 
To nail on their bedroom door. 

And the children came in early, 

Filled with superstitious fright, 
While they kept the tallow candle 

Burning steady through the night. 

Though the world has made advancement 

On progression's steady tide, 
Still the question is uncertain 

Why that pig should suicide. 



THE CHRONIC SCOLDER. 

She was a strange woman, surpassingly strange, 
And her various qualities took a big range. 

As fine a housekeeper as ever you saw, 
But her governing trait was a rotary jaw. 

What e'er the confusion in kitchen or hall, 
The din of her scolding was heard above all. 

Her stove was a mirror, her dishes, also, 

Her laundry a marvel, the whiteness of snow. 

An expert at cooking old dishes or new, 

Though her rivals were many, her equals were few; 

Such cooking as only your mother could do, 
With health and economy ever in view. 



142 



L. H. BEAL. 



From cellar to attic, from kitchen to hall, 
So rigid the order pervading them all, 

Your servant, the writer, felt painfully queer, 
For the dazzle and glamour was very severe. 

But a tramp of a fly on her clean table cloth 

Set her mouth overflowing with venom and wroth; 

And she jawed the poor girl, with a double encore, 
For letting him in when she opened the door. 

And she sent the wee girl for water one day, 

Then she jawed her for bringing it in the wrong way. 

Another young child, chilled through by expose, 
Burnt a hole in her stocking in warming her toes; 

And she scolded the child, who, of course, never 

knew it, 
Then she jawed the next older for letting her do it. 

A button was missing from the little one's dress, 
But just how it happened the child couldn't guess; 

But she was berated with a jaw, jaw, jaw, 
As though she had broken a great moral law. 

Then she noticed the broom, as it stood by the door, 
How it leaned the wrong way, so she scolded some 
more. 

Still hot on the trail she suddenly spied 
The little boy's shoes were not properly tied, 



POEMS. 143 

And then rent the air with a scolding so hot, 
Because he'd forgotten the double bow-knot. 

The front window curtain next worried her eye, 
It wasn't quite square and an inch or two high. 

The end of the towel had caught on a chair 

And she jawed the poor girl for having it there. 

The tablecloth cover was laid in a fold 

But it wasn't quite square and started a scold. 

The rug on the floor was a little askew 

And she jawed about that till the weather was blue. 

The fire in the cook stove was getting quite low 
And the pudding for dinner was cooking too slow, 

So she ordered Philena to put in some wood, 
The little girl did it as quick as she could ; 

Then followed a blizzard to frighten the Dutch, 
Philena had put in a sliver too much. 

Now were I the father of Philena, the child — 
But I'd better not say it, you'd think I was wild. 

By some fatal mishappen it could be no more, 
The little one's stockings were left on the floor; 

Then followed a torrent of blame and abuse, 

As though all the demons from Hades were loose. 

Don't think of reforming so rabid a scold, 
'Twill make her more savage, defiant and bold; 



144 L. H. BEAL. 

As well to preach sermons to the wild loupcervier 
To make him a pet for your baby of three. 

I am some older than when I was young, 
And have learned to do better than fight with the 
tongue ; 

And when it is certain our natures don't fit, 
The best thing to do is to get up and get. 

That housekeeper's cooking I cannot enjoy, 
Such fretting and scolding the flavors destroy. 

With a demon from Shiloh she may be possessed, 
Inspiring the scolding my soul has distressed. 

She but echoes the lessons her demon has taught, 
And she burdens the life of the man that she's 
caught, 

And she has been puzzling for many a day 
"Why the newspaper fellow so hurried away. 



THE PINCHBACK DEACON. 

He was a good deacon, with fervor aglow, 
And passingly honest so far as we know. 

And on every Sabbath he sat in his pew, 
Kesponding emphatic as good deacons do. 

As the preacher expounds the doctrinal view, 
That Hades has many and Heaven a few. 



POEMS. 145 

Nor has this good man ever harbored a doubt, 
He has all the truth that's worth finding out, 

What good is religion, he often would say, 
That tolerates sinners who stand in your way. 

He oft drops a penny, he pinches the while, 

For spreading the gospel at the head of the Nile. 

Although he has neighbors outside of the fold, 
Who often go hungry and suffer with cold. 

But never a penny these neighbors he doles, 
For food or for clothing or saving their souls. 

Their souls are less precious to the deacon, you see, 
Than the souls of the Hindu or heathen Chinee. 

He's sharp at a bargain and discounts the price, 
Holds on to his dollars with the grip of a vice. 

He figures in dreams, to cut his expense, 

And gets a week's laundry for twenty-five cents. 

But the widow is fighting the wolf from the door, 
With the quarter he paid her, while earning him four. 



LIBERTY. 



As I passed by a meadow green, 
Fragrant with blooming clover, 

I saw inside a colt was tied, 
Lest he the fence get over. 



146 L. H. BEAL. 

I, in my fancy, asked the colt 

Why he should cause such trouble; 

Why he had tried to jump outside 
For only barren stubble. 

The colt looked up and seemed to say, 
"I've looked that stubble over; 

And that to me with liberty 
Is sweeter than this clover." 



REMINISCENCES OF SOUTH DURHAM HIGH 
SCHOOL DAYS. 

Poem read at the reunion of the South Durham 
High School Association, August 27, 1903, by L. H. 
Beal. 

As I sat in evening shadows, 

Swinging slowly to and fro 
In my rustic home-made hammock, 

Something like a week ago; 

Visions of my early schooldays 

Softly crept on memory's page, 
Seeming anxious in endeavor 

My attention to engage. 

There was spread a panorama, 

Of a place I'd often seen, 
An old fashioned country schoolhouse 

On which time still held a lien. 



POEMS. 147 

And a church so unpretentious, 

Built upon the granite rocks; 
Typical of solid virtues 

Of the followers of Fox. 

And close by the ancient graveyard, 

Where I've wandered oft alone, 
Where no cherished names embellished 

Marble slab or polished stone. 

But this custom has its credit, 

When we take a broader view, 
Epitaphs oft give a merit, 

That the living never knew. 

In the wisdom of our makeup 

There's a trace of the divine, 
When our follies are forgotten, 

While our virtues ever shine, 

And we see the place where Franklin 

Kept an honest country store, 
And the ledge right in the highway, 

Spreading to the church's door. 

Franklin still is doing business 

At the very same old stand; 
He has seen the rise and fall of 

Many 'isms in the land. 

This the place now made historic, 

Cherished memories have it so, 
For South Durham's High School flourished 

Here some fifty years ago. 



148 L. H. BEAL. 

But the tannery is missing, 
With its owner passed away, 

And the bark mill by the muck pond, 
Where the bull frog pipes his lay. 

Quaker worship then was simple, 
Not a book or note in sight, 

Each one spoke as moved by spirit, 
Guided by the "inward light." 

Then we heard the voice of Nathan, 
Who had such a marvelous gift, 

To awake religious fervor, 
And the soul to Heaven uplift. 

And still standing by the roadside 
Is the same old pump, I know, 

Often have we quaffed its nectar 
In the cherished long ago. 

Just below was blacksmith Tuttle, 
And I'm stating but the facts, 

Vain the search to find his equal, 
As an expert on the axe. 

But his fame in making axes, 
Has not all his merits shown, 

He would cast the temperance ballot, 
Though he did it all alone. 

Though his party was defeated, 
It would never give him fright, 

For minorities he told us, 

Were more often in the right. 



POEMS. 149 

All our haunts in field and woodland, 

Oft sweet memory recalls, 
But the frosts of many winters 

Have zigzagged the old stone walls. 

There's the same old granite boulder, 
Where we've faced the listening trees, 

Spellbound in their adoration, 
When we played Demosthenes. 

But the hermit thrush is singing, 

With same enchanting flow, 
Where so oft we've paused to listen 

In the cherished long ago. 

And the minnows in the streamlet, 

That is flowing gently by, 
Seems the very selfsame minnows, 

As they seize the luckless fly. 

Fifty years have wrought such changes 

That ourselves we hardly know, 
And we have an inward feeling 

That 'tis time for us to go. 

Yield our places to the younger, 

Who will occupy the land; 
Let them finish the improvements 

We ourselves have only planned. 

Death we look on as a blessing, 

From a philosophic view, 
And to call it king of terrors, 

111 becomes a man like you. 



150 L. H. BEAL. 

Human life has only value 

From the good we see in things, 

Pleasure without pain to others 
Is the creed that wisdom brings. 

Knowledge taught in college textbooks 
Is not all beneath the sun; 

With the graduate's diploma 
A. B. C. is just begun. 

But we make no war on textbooks, 
Nor complain of college rules, 

But experience gives us knowledge, 
Never got in public schools. 

As we read the course of nations, 
Of their progress, rise and fall, 

We are forced to the conclusion, 
No one lives who knows it all. 

And the nations most enlightened, 
Proselyte with fire and sword, 

While their salaried priests give credit 
For their victories to the Lord. 

Claiming, in their egotism, 
They're the favorites of God, 

And enforce on weaker nations 
Their religion with the rod. 

Man-made creeds, once rated faultless, 
Slowly yield to Heaven's fate, 

And the faith which once we swore by 
Now is subject to debate. 



POEMS. 151 

Theologians are admitting 

What they formerly abhorred, 
Vice itself is human torment, 

Virtue is its own reward. 

All in vain the old creed builders, 
Built their doctrines 'thout a flaw; 

Progress proves against their protest 
All is subject to its law. 

Thoughtful minds now give attention, 

As they list to reason's voice, 
Faith that is sincere and honest, 

Cannot be a thing of choice. 

And we see a brighter dawning 

In the theologic skies; 
And a faith devoid of terrors, 

From the dead one's ashes rise. 

Few can share our social greeting, 
For they're scattered far and wide, 

While the most have ceased life's struggles, 
And have crossed the Great Divide. 



UNCLE PETER'S R. F. D. 

Have you heard of old Peter on the R. F. D. 
And the fight he is making 'gainst the mail box 
decree? 

That white-haired veteran so tall, lean and lank, 
A natural born kicker, and an all around crank. 



152 L. H. BEAL. 

Well, now if you'll listen, 111 do what I can 
To give you the story of this lively old man. 

The Rural F. D. was coming his way, 

So he put up his post by the traveled highway; 

Then says uncle Peter, says he to himself, 
Without the least feelings related to pelf, 

"I'll make me a box to sit on that post, 
Which will be admired by the traveling host. 

"With my skill and my tools I'll put it together, 
And warrant it proof 'gainst the thief or the 
weather." 

So he did as he said, 'thout further delay, 
Then watched for the postman as he came the first 
day. 

But when he arrived, says Peter, I vow, 
Instead of a smile he 'd frown on his brow ; 

Then plainly he told me that my home-made box 
By the postmaster's ruling was not orthodox. 

"Your box is a good one, but you see 'tis home-made, 
If we recognize such, 'twill ruin the trade. 

"This thing is not managed, let me whisper to you, 
For the good of the many, but the gain of the few. 

"You must have the trust box or surely you'll fail 
By official order of getting your mail. 



POEMS. 153 

"That post-office 'order/ 'tis well understood, 
Makes the rural box business exceedingly good." 

Then he whipped up his horse, like a hurried M. D. 
And left me to ponder on this great counter-ee. 

I was judged as a culprit, and my only escape 
Was to bow in submission to the rule of Red Tape. 

By the trust fiat order they had me, I knew it, 
But I swore like a pirate I never would do it. 

My box is condemned, so I've taken it down, 
But still 'tis in service in an up river town. 

I'll still jog along in a leisurely way 
Till the trusts come to grief and the people have 
sway. 

These post-office orders are a darnation bother, 
Enforced on one line and defied on another. 

Is the post-office Head the trust's supple tool, 
With the smaller P. M.s enforcing the rule? 

I claim as a freeman, though I don't deal in stocks, 
The inalienable right to make my own box. 

Now this is the story, as told by old Peter, 
And I've only put it in doggerel meter. 



CHRISTMAS EVE REFLECTIONS. 

Another year has passed and gone, 
And still I'm sadly plodding on. 



154 l. H. BEAL. 

Now can you tell me what 'tis for, 
Why I should still prolong this war. 

Life's joys for me forever past, 
And why should I them all outlast, 

If I but live a few days more, 

My years will number seventy-four. 

Three score and ten the Scriptures tell, 
The years for man on earth to dwell, 

But if in years the figures rise, 

'Tis from the " strength that in us lies." 

But I am feeling sad tonight, 

And something tells me I must write. 

So I begin this random verse, 
I've written better, seldom worse. 

My neighbors all are gone, I see, 
Gone to enjoy the Christmas tree. 

The years are thirty-six today 

In that same schoolhouse down the way, 

My children now all gone from me, 
The first time saw a Christmas tree. 

I seem to hear their voices call, 
But 'tis in fancy, that is all, 

Their pictures on the wall respond, 
And seem to beckon me beyond. 



POEMS. 155 

Whatever sorrow may betide, 

Their mem'ry still shall be my guide. 

What marvels they've in store for me, 
I cannot hear, I cannot see. 

Nor can I tell what may be mine, 
But I can trust in the Divine. 

I know I soon must join the dead, 
But 'tis a change I do not dread. 



THE LAY OF THE BROOMSTICK CANE. 

A True Episode of Lewiston Town. 

The "Old Man" Giveth Tuneful Thanks to the Far-Famed 

Michael King, Grand Vizier to the Sultan Sam 

Ibn Ben Hibbert. 

With faltering step an old man strode 

Into Mike's eating room; 
He leaned upon an awkward cane, 

Made from a worn-out broom. 

Rheumatic pains in every limb, 

'Twas plain he suffered by, 
But he was hungry all the same 

And called for custard pie. 

There's nothing like Mike's custard pie 

In all the country 'bout; 
Just how 'tis made no other man 

Has ever yet found out. 



156 L. H. BEAL. 

That same old man with broomstick cane 

Had been in there before, 
And made a supper on his pie — 

One piece and nothing more. 

The waiter pointed to a seat 

"Within a stall close by; 
And soon upon a waiter brought 

The ordered piece of pie. 

The old man finished his repast, 

Then felt his pocket o'er; 
But while he fumbled for the dime 

His cane fell to the floor. 

Then quick as thought Mike seized the same, 
Made from the worn-out broom, 

And straightway started through a door 
Into another room. 

To say the old man was surprised 

Would be to put it mild. 
He called aloud, "Bring back my cane," 

While guests and waiters smiled. 

Not long they waited in suspense, 
Ere Mike appeared once more; 

With beaming smiles all o'er his face 
Another cane he bore. 

A splendid stick of some rare wood, 

With shade of cherry red, 
And finished with artistic skill 

With hand-carved ivory head. 



POEMS. 157 



He gave it to the limping man, 
Who thanked him with a grin; 

And now, says he, "You may tell me 
Just where the laugh comes in." 

genial Mike, you are a brick, 
Say all whom you have fed; 

And may you live the man to kick 
Who smiles when you are dead ! 



THE SHILOHIZED REPORTER. 

There lives a man near Shilohville 

With head of oversize, 
Who scribbles for the daily press, 

Which he would hypnotize. 

He's fighting anti-Sandfordites, 
And trails them with a rush, 

And when he runs a victim down, 
He wins a bowl of mush. 

When in his stupid virulence, 
He makes his wild attacks; 

He has a way to dress his fakes, 
And pass them off for facts. 

No matter what "Elijah" does, 
In his insane delusion, 
You'll see the scribbler and the quack 
Defending his conclusion. 

Religious creeds to such as these 
Are merely merchandize, 



158 



L. H. BEAL. 

Their sympathies will gravitate 
To where the profit lies. 

A diagnosis of the ease 
Reveals the truth so plain, 

Strong symptoms of the Shiloh blight 
Is fastened on his brain. 



AT A THANKSGIVING DINNER. 

Ira Goddard and Friends 

Once more we have gathered as kindred and friends, 
For Thanksgiving service as custom commends. 

So thankful are we to live in the days, 
And serve under rulers so worthy of praise. 

Who appoint us a day to enjoy a repast, 
Or avert divine judgment by ordering a fast. 

But some of their subjects are so indiscreet 
They only will fast when they've nothing to eat. 

Then a toast to our rulers who kindly declare 
The days for Thanksgiving, for fasting and prayer. 

And often I ponder the very hard question, 
What people would do without their suggestion. 

But a scoffer suggests with a wink and a nod, 
They prey on the public 'stead of praying to God. 

On Thanksgiving service our views differ wide. 
'Tis a fact that we have no infallible guide. 



POEMS. 159 

Some, finding no pleasure in frivolous charms, 
Would listen to sermons and singing of Psalms. 

The service best rendered, the glutton would think, 
Is gorging their stomach with victuals and drink. 

While to the more slothful and lazy inclined, 
Abstaining from labor is just to their mind. 

Then the sports, whom good people so often con- 
demn, 
Would have a Thanksgiving made purpose for them 

But on some of the service we all can agree 

When we smell the roast turkey and hot fricassee, 

If turkeys are scarce and prices are sad, 
The early spring chicken is not very bad. 

No more will I bore you with doggerel rhyme, 
So pass o'er your platters and we'll have a good 
time. 



MY EARLY SCHOOL DAYS. 

Read on the Occasion of the 56th Anniversary of 
the South Durham High School. 

Very well do I remember, 

Nearly seventy years ago, 
How I wallowed to the school house 

Through drifting winter snow. 

All so proud in my new trousers, 

Jacket, too, of darkish gray, 
Made of cloth homespun and woven 

In the good old fashion way. 



160 L. H. BEAL. 

With my feet encased in buskins, 
Fashioned by a mother's care; 

As she sat by light of pitchknot, 
In her quaint old easy chair. 

Oft I see her in my day dreams, 
Humming some sweet lullaby, 

With her foot against the cradle, 
Often ending with a sigh. 

But I fear I am digressing, 
Wasting ink and boring time. 

'Twas about my early schooldays, 
I had started in to rhyme. 

That old school house was a marvel, 
Built in seventeen eighty-nine, 

Timbers hewn by skillful axeman, 
Shingles shaved from pumpkin pine. 

All the work was done "pon honor," 
All the timbers sound and strong, 

'Twas the red historic school house, 
Famous in romance and song. 

Built close by an ancient graveyard, 
Half enclosed it was within, 

And no doubt the pious builders 

Thought 'twould help the discipline. 

Right before them stood the "master" 
With the ruler in his hand, 

From the window lay the graveyard, 
The twin terrors of the land. 



POEMS. 161 

With two rows of long pine benches, 

And a narrow aisle between, 
On the one side boys were seated, 

Opposite the girls were seen. 

But some scholars prone to mischief, 

Had a signal code, they say, 
And across the hateful chasm 

Many a message found its way. 

Then the fireplace so capacious, 

Easy took the six feet sticks, 
With a chimney built to match it, 

Took, I'm told, ten thousand bricks. 

Writing pens were made from goose quills, 

Which you only read of now, 
And the "master" with his penknife 

Was the one to teach you how. 

At this time, if I remember, 

Sewing thread was never spooled, 

And the paper for our writing 
Was the foolscap all unruled. 

Each must have a lead or pencil, 

And a rule to mark the line, 
With the sheets well sewed together — 

Such a writing book was mine. 

Then the master writes the copy 
With his fancy fashioned quill, 

And the pupil tries to follow, 
With a boding sense of ill. 



162 L. H. BEAL. 

This I know by sad experience, 
For when first I tried my skill, 

On a straight line pointing upward, 
It looked like an eagle's bill. 

"When the master looked it over, 
He seemed in a frenzied rage, 

And he boxed my ears severely, 
Though I was of tender age. 

"Was he mad or was he crazy, 
I have pondered long in doubt, 

But 'tis true the blows he gave me 
Very nearly knocked me out. 

Then I prayed with 'vengeful fervor, 
God might smite him with a curse, 

And I feel my prayer is answered, 
Should he ever read my verse. 

If 'tis true, as some would have it, 
Demons oft through mortals speak ; 

Maybe this same boxing master 
Now inspires the Shiloh freak. 

Webster's speller was the text book 
Of the children's primary class, 

And the words of wisdom in it, 
Sage nor prophet can surpass. 

That boy pictured stealing apples, 
Was a rowdy from the town, 

How he laughed at moral suasion, 
Till the old man stoned him down. 



poems. 163 

That young rowdy got a lesson 
From the man he thought a fool, 

For it wrought a reformation, 

And he joined the Sunday School. 

Every boy who had a jackknife, 

Oft would ape the artist's skill 
On the writing bench before him, 

All against the master's will. 

And when questioned on the subject, 
Such an honest mien they'd show; 

Who it was that did the mischief, 
Each declared they did not know. 

The old school house now has vanished, 

In the years of interlude, 
But the burial place is left us, 

And I love its solitude. 

One white slab of spotless marble 

Stood just opposite the gate, 
Like a sentinel on duty, 

'Mong the stones of ancient date. 

But this yard has been extended 

Much beyond its ancient bound, 
Monuments of costly structure 

Now adorn the sacred ground. 

Those twin pines, so tall and stately, 

Greet me with a welcome sigh, 
While I pause with heart responsive, 

For I cannot pass them by. 



164 L. H. BEAL. 

And this spot I often visit, 
With a fancy all aglow; 

Kead the names on stone and marble, 
Of my schoolmates long ago. 



GRIFFIN'S SPRING. 



eral spring at North Brunswick, Sept. 8, 1905, by 
L. H. Beal. 

As I lay in trance or dreaming, 

Not so very long ago, 
A most strange and vivid vision 

Set my fancy all aglow. 

At the entrance of a driveway 

There appeared a marvelous thing, 

Letters from a storage battery 
Told the way to Griffin's Spring. 

Invalids from town and city 

Lined the roadway all along, 
Some on stretchers, some on crutches, 

Some with prayer and some with song. 

Old and young with middle aged, 
Short and clumsy, lank and tall, 

Beardless youths and grisly whiskered, 
Many with no hair at all; 

Some were coughing, some were wheezing, 
Though the day was bright and warm; 

Many had the drinking habit, 
With no power to reform. 



POEMS. 165 

Then I heard such joyous shouting, 

Echoing from the sylvan grove, 
Not unlike a spirit chorus 

From the fabled spheres above. 

And still greater grew the wonder, 

As I glanced toward the spring, 
For the inavlids were dancing, 

With a most elastic swing; 

All their crutches were discarded, 

Thrown into a common dump, 
And you'd call them circus fellows, 

Could you then have seen them jump. 

Then a spirit stood before me, 

While I paused in wonder dumb, 
And he showed me that my vision 

Was a gleam of things to come. 

Those who drink this sparkling water 
Will be blessed with perfect health, 

Happiness and pleasure greater 
Than is found in tainted wealth. 

Then I lost myself entirely 

Till I heard a thunder tone, 
"Hello, Leonard, are you ready? 

John is calling at the 'phone." 



EPIGRAMS ON " ELIJAH" IN RHYME. 

His voice is the echo of the Apache yell, 
The soul of his preaching is devils and hell. 



166 L. H. BEAL. 

These factors removed from his soul blighting creed, 
His captives would scatter with marvelous speed. 

Of all the "Elijahs" he claimed he was best, 
But when he was measured he failed in the test. 

But still he retains for human affairs, 
His natural instinct for hunting the bears. 

No longer he trusts to his own revelation, 

But he turns to his ' ' counsel" for sound information ; 

When his fake revelations run counter to laws, 
He will fight jury verdicts with quibbles and flaws. 

With hair splitting quibbles for this and for that, 
Is justice defeated while lawyers grow fat. 

Harmoniously yoked is "Elijah," they say, 
With the doctor commissioned as Josh-u-a; 

"Elijah" and Joshua and Moses you see, 
The truly personified Trin-i-tee. 

While Elijah and Moses in unity dwell, 

With the doctor who scouts both Heaven and Hell; 

When "Elijah" next starts for the town meeting 

track, 
Just see him play Balaam astride of his Jack. 

Haranguing the voters their terrible loss, 
Unless they submit to the Shiloh Hill boss. 

Beware of Elijahs, at home or abroad, 

Who claim they've a message special from God. 



POEMS. 17 7 

Examine their records, look over their proofs, 
And you'll find in their footsteps the marks of their 
hoofs. 

If you'd follow Elijah, nor give him offence, 
Surrender your dollars as well as your sense (cents), 

Though reduced in your rations to turnips and grass, 
You're a hundred fold Christian of the Shiloh Hill 
class. 

Away on the ocean, with his swift Coronet, 

Your fines nor your prisons have caught him as yet ; 

But justice eternal, though it seems very slow, 
Will follow the culprit where'er he may go. 

Do you know of any heathen in countries abroad, 
Who, by starving their children, stay the wrath of 
their God? 

Not in African jungles or dark Hindustan, 
Is such cruel practice ever ordered by man. 

Shall civilization forever be vexed 

With a crank's explanation of mystical text? 

Then roll back progression with a pace double quick, 
So we grind with a mortar and plow with a stick. 

Owe no man a dollar, his oft quoted creed, 

But the text is elastic as the prophet hath need; 

It is easy in sermon, but the stubborn fact is, 
He's oft short of dollars to put it in practice. 



168 L. H. BEAL. 

So God as a father, this crank would dethrone, 
For a cold hearted monster a design of his own; 

Then with threatening gymnastics and Shilohized 

text, 
Would terrorize this world with the spooks of the 

next. 

His dread of a summon affected his spine, 
So he took a vacation just over the line. 

Safe in the deep forest with that rifle of his, 
Where no sheriff could summon and no lawyer could 
quiz. 

He's a most valiant warrior at home on his "Hill," 
And flays his opponent with a masterly skill. 

But let this opposer with reason equipped, 
Step to the arena, then "Elijah" has skipped. 

Those fancy priced horses look lean and forlorn, 
They're starving on "faith" without any corn. 

While the crows are a cawing in jubilant tones 
For a Thanksgiving supper on Shiloh horse bones. 

Your big fields of corn look sorry, indeed, 
You'll not get enough to pay for your seed. 

On your fields of potatoes of various names, 
The bugs and the witch grass are pressing their 
claims. 

While neighboring farmers are venturing doubt, 
That you'll have enough to winter you out. 



POEMS. 1 69 

Oh, don't stay away, Elijah! Now don't! 

Your presence is needed right here at the front. 

The devil has entered to stir up the pot ; 
One elder already has his lessons forgot. 

The weaklings are missing your hypnotic glance; 
For a Shiloh rebellion we fear there's a chance. 

And some of the saints have read on the sly 
That Herald reporter's most damnable lie. 

The devil is watching as soon as you're gone 
Away on your yacht to gather your corn. 

And then you are wanted by the laws of the land 
To tell your own story on the court witness-stand; 

How you are directed by the mandate of God 
To starve little children and spare not the rod. 

Your affection for widows you then can explain, 
Who are left with much cash and little of brain. 

Don't miss this one chance your record to make, 
And prove to the jury you're more than a fake, 

And show them most plainly how you talk with the 

Lord, 
Advise whom to punish and who to reward. 

Elijah, Elijah, take your place in the strife, 
Confound your defamers, 'tis the chance of your life. 



170 L. H. BEAL. 

THE AGNOSTIC CREED. 

We have no falsehoods to defend; 

We want the facts. 
Our force, our thoughts, we do not spend 

In vain attacks; 
And we will never meanly try- 
To save some fair and pleasant lie. 

The simple truth is what we ask — 

Not the ideal. 
We have set ourselves the noble task 

To find the real. 
If all there is is naught but dross, 
We wish to know and bear our loss. 

We will not willingly be fooled, 

And by fables nursed; 
Our hearts by earnest thoughts are schooled 

To bear the worst, 
And we can stand erect and dare 
All things, all facts that really are. 

We have no God to serve or fear, 

No hell to shun, 
No devil with malicious leer. 

When life is done 
An endless sleep may close our eyes, 
A sleep with neither dreams nor sighs. 

We have no master on the land, 

No king in air; 
Without a manacle we stand, 

Without a prayer; 
Without a fear of coming night, 
We seek the truth, we love the right. 



POEMS. 171 

We do not bow before a guess 

Of age unknown; 
A senseless farce we do not bless 

In solemn tone. 
When evil comes we do not curse, 
Or thank because it is no worse. 

Our life is joyous, jocund, free ; 

Not one a slave 
Who bends in fear the trembling knee 

And seeks to save 
A coward soul from evil's pain; 
Not one will cringe or crawl for gain. 

The jeweled cup of love we drain, 

And friendship's wine 
Now softly flows in every vein, 

With warmth divine. 
And so we love, hope and dream 
That in death's sky there is a gleam. 

We walk according to our light, 

Pursue the path 
That leads to honor's stainless height, 

Careless of wrath 
Or curse of God, or priestly spite, 
Knowing, and knowing, do the right. 

We love our fellow-men, our kind, 

Wife, child and friend; 
To phantoms we are deaf and blind, 

But we extend 
The helping hand to the distressed, 
And by loving others we are blest. 



172 L. H. BEAL. 

Love's sacred flame within the heart, 

And friendship's glow, 
While all the miracles of art 

From wealth bestow 
Upon the thrilled and joyous brain, 
A present paradise and banish pain. 

"We love no phantoms of the skies, 

But living flesh 
With passion's soft, and soulful eyes, 

Lips warm and fresh, 
And cheeks with health's red flag unfurled, 
The breathing angels of this world. 

The hands that help are better far 

Than lips that pray; 
Love is ever the gleaming star 

That leads the way. 
That shines not on vague realms of bliss 
But on the paradise in this. 

We do not pray or weep or wail; 

We have no dread, 
No fear to pass beyond the veil 

That hides the dead; 
And yet we question, dream and guess, 
But knowledge we do not possess. 

We ask, yet nothing seems to know; 

We cry in vain — 
There is no master of the show 

Who will explain, 
Or from the future tear the mask, 
And yet we dream and yet we ask 



POEMS. 173 



Is there beyond the silent night 

An endless day? 
Is death a door that leads to light ? 

"We cannot say. 
The tongueless secret locked in fate, 
We do not know ; we hope and wait. 



-Selected. 



THE ANNIVERSARY. 

Written on the occasion of the " surprise" given 
Mrs. Alzo S. Merrill on the anniversary of her 
twenty-ninth birthday. 

Of all the fads of modern times, 

Which fashion has devised, 
There's nothing that such pleasure brings 

As that of being surprised. 

Especially when friendships' claim 

In deeds materialize, 
And brings such gifts so rich and rare, 

So pleasing to the eyes. 

To have a good impromptu speech, 

With humor bubbling o'er, 
The speaker should be notified 

A week or so before. 



And then the pleasure is enhanced 
If by some mystic "Phone," 

Some days before the grand event, 
Their coming is made known. 



174 L. H. BEAL.. 

It gives them time to polish up 

The stove and porcelain, 
Dust up the chairs and carpets, which 

Have reason to complain. 

We like to meet and talk and laugh 
And hear old songs and new, 

Played on the marvelous phonograph, 
And the old fiddle, too. 

What if the fiddle groans somewhat 
Like Shiloh's demon hordes, 

It's wailings all unnoticed are 
When Lizzie plays the chords. 

'Tis good to meet in social cheer 
And talk of facts and maybes, 

The men to argue politics; 
The women, styles and babies. 

There might be made in ladies' hats 
Improvements, in my mind, 

A printed card fixed on the front 
To tell who was behind. 

But I'm not criticising them, 

Or casting any blame, 
Whatever style their hats may be, 

They're women all the same. 

Our worthy hostess is, I'm told, 
In years just twenty-nine, 

A favorite line for Alzo when 
He sings that "She is mine." 



POEMS. 175 



I oft in fancy ponder what 
Would be the minds employ, 

Were there no evils to combat, 
No scandals to enjoy. 

This world would be a horrid place, 
I would not stay a minute 

If all the boys and girls were gone, 
Nor man nor woman in it. 

About that time I'd write a book; 

A book about the stars, 
And tell you all about the folks 

That now inhabit Mars. 

I wish you now a merry time, 
With so much pleasure here, 

You'll plan to have your natal day 
A dozen times a year. 



THE AUTHOR'S BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION. 

How the country around about celebrated the 
Durham Poet's 76th birthday. 

A fine program of entertainment was provided for 
the benefit of those present. 

Poems That Were Read. 

The seventy-sixth birthday of L. H. Beal, of Dur- 
ham, was celebrated at his home, Saturday evening, 
Feb. 2, by about fifty of his friends. 

The following entertainment was given : 

Address of welcome, W. H. Douglas 

Selections on violin, L. H. Beal 



176 L. H. BEAL. 

Solos, Nellie Douglas and Hazel Bowie 

Remarks, J. H. Davis and W. H. Douglas 

Reading, Eliza B. Douglas 

Duet, J. H. Davis and daughter 

Recitation, Nellie M. Douglas 

Music, Violin and Organ 

Comic Song, ''I'm a used up man," J. H. Davis 

Remarks, Bessie Day and Eliza B. Douglas 

Original poem by the host, entitled, "My Early 
History," read by J. H. Davis 

Singing by the Guests 
Duet, J. H. Davis and daughter 

(The old Banjo is good enough for me) 
Humorous stories by J. H. Davis 

Poem, by Mrs. John H. Merrill, read by 

Miss Edith F. Libby 
Presentation of parlor lamp, W. H. Douglas 

Responded to by the Host 
Singing, "Auld Lang Syne," By the Guests 

An oyster supper, with cake and other good things, 
was served by the host. 

Everybody voted it a jolly good time and are 
wishing it would come again. We, with all the rest 
wish Mr. Beal many happy returns of the day. 

A large birthday cake was presented to the Poet, 
but Ave failed to get the name of the donor. — Lewis- 
ton Sun. 



MY EARLY HISTORY. 

Just seventy-six, the records say, 
Since I first saw the light of day. 

In a log cabin down in Maine, 
The family history will explain. 



POEMS. 177 

It rained all day and through the night, 
And roads were in a fearful plight. 

No telephones or railroads then, 
To summon distant doctors when, 

The case permitted no delay, 
Nor be postponed another day; 

Nor wheels nor sleighs could then be used, 
And common calls must be refused. 

The doctor came in anxious haste, 
Through slush and mud up to his waist. 

His foaming, panting steed bestride, 
Reminding me of "Sheridan's Ride." 

He proved his skill and won his fee, 
Departing with a wink at me. 

Dispute my story, ye who dare, 
The records show that I was there. 

This my excuse for being here, 

So please don't judge me too severe. 

A saying neither new nor novel, 

Great men sometimes are born in hovel. 

'Tis not in start our merit lies, 
But in the summit that we rise. 

Unfed desires promote endeavor, 
While luxury may dwarf forever. 



178 L. H. BEAL. 

That Cabin built of big pine logs, 

Stood near a brook well stocked with frogs. 

E'er yet I'd donned the pantaloons, 
I often listened to their tunes. 

Nor will I frown to have it stated, 
Their songs and mine are equal rated. 

Now February makes the claim, 
Above all months for men of fame. 

While other months might make complaint, 
It shows two sinners to one saint. 

Then later on a new house came, 

With millsawed board and well hewn frame. 

Then in the hut where I was born, 

They put the ''cow with crumpled horn." 

This was our home till I was six, 
When father sold to Neighbor Hicks. 

Both parents then conclude the same, 

To move back "West," from whence they came. 

With kids and goods — a two horse load — 
We started on the welcome road. 

One hundred miles in seven days; 
This was our speed without delays. 

How oft we think of Now and Then, 

And quote the words, "It might have been." 



POEMS. 179 

That we were poor, I will confess, 
But still respected none the less. 

When of my life twelve years had passed, 
They hired me out to break the fast. 

'Twas on a farm that lay near by, 
With an old bach, who 'd lost one eye : 

An old schoolmaster, lank and lean, 
Who had repute of being mean. 

His old, old mother kept his house, 
Who long before had lost her spouse. 

Through all the long and dreary while, 
I never saw the old bach smile. 

'Twas said by some he'd lived among, 
He lost his heart when he was young. 

On every Sunday, storm or not, 

Through with the chores, I'd homeward trot; 

The distance but a mile, I knew, 
But then it lengthened out to two. 

It was my youth's most happy hour, 
When I sent home a barrel of flour, 

Trucked all the way from Portland, then, 
By oxen owned by Uncle Ben. 

He walked beside them on the road, 
And geed and hawed them with his goad. 



180 L. H. BEAL. 



Two Xs on the barrel head, 
And, oh! it made the nicest bread. 

My mother smiled till she was sad, 
It made her heart so overglad. 

Her first whole barrel from the store, 
How oft I've heard her tell it o'er. 

I might go on, but judge it best, 
To let some future tell the rest. 

THE RIVER OF TIME. 

To L. H. Beal, on his seventy-sixth birthday, Feb- 
ruary third, nineteen hundred and seven. 

A wonderful stream is the river of Time, 

Sang a musical poet of old, 
It is wonderful now and just as sublime, 

As when first the story he told. 

In childhood, the river's a tiny stream, 

Gliding and murmurring along, 
'Neath bright blue skies, with shimmering sheen, 

Singing its lullaby song. 

No longer the river goes rushing along, 
But rushes with a merry, wide sweep ; 

Happy is boyhoods' loud, rollicking song, 
And he thinks the old river asleep. 

Faster and faster, and, with louder roar, 
Runs the river in manhoods' hours, 

Threat 'ning to overleap its shore, 
Destroying life's beautiful flowers. 



POEMS. 181 

And now, the river has glided along, 

Through the winters of seventy-six years, 

Seventy-six summers have quickly gone, 
And entered the ocean of Tears. 

As the years run faster and faster away, 
And we hear the ocean's loud roar, 

May we hear the white clad boatsman say, 
Embark! And I'll ferry you o'er. 

Silently and Swiftly he bears us o'er 
To the "Greenwood" beyond the river, 

Where loved ones wait on the mystical shore, 
With a welcome forever and ever. 

— S. J. L. M. 



THE LAWRENCE CATASTROPHY. 

' ' Methinks we stand on ruin ; nature shakes 
About us; and the universal frames 
So loose, that it but wants another push 
To leap it from its hinges." 



In the State of Massachusetts, 
Where so many looms are "run,' 

In that busy city, Lawrence, 

Stood the Mill called Pemberton. 

'Tis the tenth of January, 

At or nearly five P. M., 
All are joyous, little dreaming 

Of the fate awaiting them. 



182 L. H. BEAL. 

Some six hundred there are busy, 
Carding, spinning, at the loom, 

In that pile of brick and mortar, 
Which is soon to be their tomb ! 

Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, 
Lovers plighted evermore; 

Each are dear to some one living, 
On the East or Western shore. 

And how many o'er Atlantic 
W r ait impatient for the day 

When the steamer shall bring tidings 
From the loved ones far away. 

From the rule of the oppressor, 
They have come to find a home; 

Here they toil and send their earnings, 
That their kindred, too, may come. 

As they dwell upon the future, 

Gleams of hope light up each face — 

Gracious God! The Mill is falling! 
Falling to its very base ! 

"Save! save me, or I perish!" 
Is the dying victims' prayer — 

Oh, the shrieks are awful ! awful ! 
As they swell the evening air. 

Stoutest bosoms heave and quiver, 
As they hear the sufferers' groan; 

Hearts of stone like snow are melted, 
As they hear the victims' moan. 



POEMS. 183 

Soon are gathered at the ruins, 

Thousands eager to give aid; 
And to save who may be living, 

Great exertions now are made. 

Now the scene that greets the living 

Baffles all descriptive art! 
And the shriekings of the wounded 

Pierce each listener to the heart. 

A reporter the most graphic, 

But the faintest shadow gives, — 

Wringing of the hands and calling 
For their missing relatives. 

Living forms are so disfigured, 

By the ruins on them piled, 
That the mother, earnest seeking, 

Fails to recognize her child. 

And some are so mutilated, 

As on litters they are placed, 
On their mangled forms no vestige 

Of the human can be traced. 

As the efforts are progressing, 

Hope despondent rises higher, 
For some yet remain uninjured — 

But, Oh God! the cry of "FIRE!" 

Now, alas ! no power can save them ! 

Hearts that fondly hoped awhile, 
Yielding to despair, now perish ! 

Perish on one funeral pile ! 



184 L. H. BEAL. 

Of the "Black Hole" in Calcutta, 

We have read where hundreds died; 

And of choleras and famines, 
History has testified. 

"We have lost full many a steamer, 
With its living, human freight, 

But ne'er on New England's dry land 
Was calamity so great. 

Scenes of woe ! how oft they greet us, 
As upon life's sea we're borne; 

Ne'er was penned a line more truthful 
Than that "Man was made to mourn." 

But while mourning let us cherish 

Hope which lights thro' darksome way; 

Though the earthly form shall perish, 
Yet the spirit lives for aye." 

Lives for aye in temples stronger 

Than earth's crumbling structures are, 

Where disasters come no longer, 

And where death can have no share. 



REFLECTIONS. 



Reflections of the rural member of the Maine Leg- 
islature from over the wireless : 

My brain's in a whirl, my nerves are upset, 
My name and my birth place I often forget. 

" Submission" and "Sturgis" is all I can hear, 
I'll go to the madhouse directly, I fear. 



POEMS. 185 

I'm sorry I ever consented to come, 

The pass in my pocket would take me back home. 

I promised the caucus I'd vote as they said, 

But the leaders are threat 'ning to cut off my head. 

Betwixt these two forces 'tis hard to decide, 
Oh, that I could manage my vote to divide ! 

Shall I talk 'gainst a measure and vote for it, too? 
Then be cursed if I don't and damned if I do. 

Before the election 'twas well understood, 

My vote should be counted to make people good. 

They claimed in the platform a power divine, 
To bind all the sinners with Puritan twine. 

They'll never forgive a political brother 

For quitting his party for "spoils" in the other. 

I'd like to see some way to honorably skip, 
Confined with pneumonia, fever or grippe. 

The anti-rum clause in the state constitution 
Should ne'er be exposed to a chance dissolution. 

Some stick to this dogma like fleas to a dog, 

As though it was written in the great Decalogue. 

By many good Christians 'tis still understood, 

'Tis the dread of the law that makes people good. 

If by some mishap they have immoral taints, 

The Sturgis rum statute will make them good saints. 



186 L. H. BEAL. 

This fiat made virtue is down below par, 

Our lives make the record and show what we are. 

Was such a condition ordained by the gods, 
As freedom and virtue, so often at odds? 

If lovers of virtue are lagging in pace, 

Then study your Darwins and start a new race. 

'Tis thus I've considered the pros and the cons, 
And listened to pleadings of daughters and sons. 

The contest is coming and I'm in the battle, 
I'd like to get back to my horses and cattle. 

The contest is on us with shouting and clatter, 
They'll know how I voted and that's what's the 
matter. 

Now what shall I do in this soul racking strife? 

I '11 write home this evening and just ask my wife ! 



THE SHOWER OF JULY 27, 1891. 

The housewife sat in her kitchen chair 
When the clock on the mantle struck three, 

When all of a sudden she said to Ardel : 
"Oh what can I get them for tea? 

"I'm sick of cooking o'er a July stove; 

The heat is oppressive, you see, 
But they will rebel at cold biscuit and cake, 

And then they'll look daggers at me." 



POEMS. 187 

And then she thought of the raspberry patch ; 

"Fresh raspberries, I have it," said she, 
"Yes, raspberries for supper, I solemnly vow, 

No matter what the weather may be." 

"Ill pick them myself," she said to her friend — 
Oh! how 'twill astonish the boys" — 

Then marvelous speed for the bushes she made, 
Considering her avoirdupois. 

The bushes she seized with ravenous clutch, 

How nimbly her fingers did fly — 
But gathering of clouds, and flashing of fire 

Proclaimed that a shower was nigh. 

Then along came Zeal with his speediest stride 

For water, the men were so dry; 
She halted him quickly and told him to pick — 

Of course he had to comply. 

He protested in vain that the shower was nigh, 
And her conduct was very improper; 

She'd vowed to herself, the heavyweight elf, 
That raspberries she'd have for her supper. 

He threatened and coaxed to get her away, 
But stick to her picking, she would ; 

But he swore as a man he never would leave 
And let her be lost in the flood. 

The rain was now falling, in torrents it came, 
Together with lightning and hail; 

They started at last, but not very fast — 
She had an umbrella and pail. 



188 L. H. BEAL. 

A bolt then started for Ellen, straightway, 

I own I was never so scared; 
But it jumped from its track, and the echo came 
back: 

"Oh! Ellen, you are not prepared!" 

At last thro' the rain she got to the door, 
With scracely a trace of the human, 

But Zeal let her in, with an oath and a grin — 
A sorrowful wreck of a woman. 



MY FAITH. 



I cannot tell what will be mine 
Beyond the Great Divide, 

But I will trust in the The Divine, 
Whatever may betide, 

And calmly by the mystic Shore 

I wait the Tide that bears me o'er. 



AMENOMANIA, OR LOVE RUN MAD. 

There's a pestilential horror, 
Say the prints of yellow hue, 

From a microbe, lank and hungry, 
With its morals all askew, 

Causing rank amenomania — 
Demon chief of human ills — 

Yielding to no human treatment, 
Science fakes or standard pills. 



POEMS. 189- 

It was brought, the preachers tell us, 
From the shade of Eden's bower; 

Eve and Adam's disobedience 
Made them victims of its power. 

Cupid's scourge, the doctors call it, 
And I think the doctors right; 

The sensation is hypnotic, 
While they feel so happy, quite. 

Quick it fastens on its victim 
With a flash of lightning speed; 

Sense and reason soon are dormant, 
Ah! a sorry plight, indeed. 

It is proof 'gainst human treatment, 
Opiates or arguments, 

Nor will quit its luckless victim 
Till it blights the moral sense. 

Once the subject in its power, 
Like the dread rheumatic pains, 

It will rack the wretched victim 
While the breath of life remains. 

Hoary locks and wrinkled visage, 
From this scourge is not immune, 

For it shows the self same symptoms 
As the victims in their June. 

Some succumb at slight exposure, 
And the plague will spare them not, 

When it fastens on them firmly, 
Marriage vows are soon forgot. 



190 L. H. BEAL. 

Sober swain and saintly matron, 
Middle age and guileless youth, 

Have the Decalogue forgotten, 
And they scorn to speak the truth. 

Oft ! the scourge in frenzied madness 
Seizes husband or a wife, 

When the dagger or the bullet 
Is the final of the strife. 

Help us, ! ye sears and sages, 
To avert such direful fate, 

Science, haste your antitoxin, 
Lest, alas ! it be too late. 



THE MISER. 



How many a man from love of pelf, 
To stuff his coffers, starves himself? 
Labors, accumulates and spares, 
To lay up ruin for his heirs; 
Grudges the poor their scanty dole, 
Saves everything except his soul; 
And always anxious, always vexed, 
Both this world loses and the next. 

— Selected. 



THE ITINERANT SAWMILL. 

Itinerant sawmills surely are 
A full grown Yankee notion, 

They travel through the timber lands 
With easy locomotion. 



POEMS. 191 

Up in a Durham timber lot 

This sawmill now is humming, 
And by the clouds of smoke and steam, 

You'd think the devil's a coming. 

The rotary speeds through the log 

As though 'twas in a frolic, 
And blows the sawdust far away 

With a power, diabolic. 

You ought to see them fellows work, 

By gracious ! how they hustle, 
To keep up with that lightning saw, 

It takes 'bout all their muscle. 

To do such work with skill and speed, 

They must been made to order, 
Their native Country is, I'm told, 

Near the Canadian border. 

Of course they're strict teetotalers. 

Just as necessity urges, 
And lawabiding citizens, 

While in the land of Sturgis. 

But they're good natured all the while, 

With repartee and joking, 
Inspired no doubt and solaced by 

Old fashioned T. D. smoking. 

And whether tendiug fires or saws, 

Loading their logs or toting, 
They ever will the while they work, 

Short scripture texts be quoting. 



192 L. H. BEAL. 

The rig they haul their logs in on, 
The latest freak among us, 

A cross between the old stone drag 
And the old double runners. 

But steadily it moves along, 

O'er ridges, stumps and hollows, 

Then well and strong and sober, too, 
Must be the man who follows. 

A sense of sadness o'er me creeps, 
With shade of melancholy; 

This very land on which we stand 
Is to our kindred holy. 

My grandsire built a cabin here, 
As good as logs could make it; 

'Twas proof against the winter blast, 
Nor hurricane could shake it. 

Of Squire L. he bought the land, 
Whose title was a mystery, 

'Twas in the Squire's Pejepscot's claim, 
Well known in Indian history. 

My grandsire took the risk, although 
He knew the risk was risky, 

'Twas said the Squire gave for the claim,. 
A gun and a jug of whiskey. 

Full many an axemark may be seen, 
On old pine stumps now standing, 

Where grandsire felled the giant pines, 
And hauled them to the landing. 



POEMS. 193 

This was my father's birthplace, too; 

He was an old time teacher; 
Could he have had the gospel "call," 

He'd been a famous preacher. 



THE REASON HE DIDN'T REPLY. 

A once noted preacher, of merited fame, 

For wit and for wisdom, no matter his name, 

Was assailed by a bigot of limited mind, 

A religious fanatic, the scourge of mankind; 

To his bitter assailant he made no reply, 

But gave to the public this sound reason why. 

"I once threw a volumn of sermons 'kerchunk' 
At a thief stealing chickens, the thief was a skunk, 

"The contest was ended, as you may suppose, 
I saving my chickens, but losing my clothes." 



IMMORTALITY. 



The soul at times, in silence of the night, 
Has visions, transient intervals of light; 
When things to come, without a shade of doubt, 
In dread reality stand fully out. 
Those lucid moments suddenly present 
Flashes of truth, as if the heavens were rent, 
And through the chasm of celestial light, 
The Future breaks up the startled sight; 



194 L. H. BEAL. 

Life's vain pursuits and Time's advancing pace, 
In dread reality stand face to face 
With Immortality's extant sublime. 
In just proportion to the speck of time, 
Whilst Death, arising from the silent shade, 
Shows his dark outline o'er the vision fade, 
And though o'erwhelming to the dazzled brain — 
These are the moments when the mind is sane. 

— Selected. 



AMONG THE LOST. 

A lay sermon in rhyme from the following as a 
text found in the Lewiston Journal of Oct. 5, 1907, 
''The trouble with most religions is that they only 
bind to a disreputable, man-made Deity." 

All religions are defective, 

All, of course, except our own, 
And by modern criticism 

These defects are plainly shown. 

In the chains of superstition, 

Forged by ignorance and hate, 
Minds are bound to false Jehovahs, 

Their own slavish fears create. 

While the brokers of delusion, 

And experts in mystic lore, 
Find a profit in the business, 

Quite exceeding stocks of ore; 



POEMS. 195 

Bound in soul to demon-monster, 

The barbarians' ancient god, 
Is a form of human slavery, 

Worse by far than Nero's rod. 

List no more to senseless fables, 

But to Nature's voice, instead, 
As the light of reason teaches, 

Kather than the unknown dead. 

Whate'er be the ruling passion, 

Selflove, honor, fame or pelf, 
Then the Deity ideal 

Is the reflex of yourself. 

# * # * 

There was a time in the dark Past, 

When priest craft had full sway, 
And with their fetish demon gods, 

Spread terror and dismay. 

Then in revenge their prophet prays 

That rain may be denied. 
And not a shower refreshed the earth, 

Till he was satisfied. 

'Tis said no rain fell on the earth, 

For two and forty months, 
But when the prophet called for it, 

A shower came down at once. 

A man called Thomas, ventures now, 

"If this account be true, 
Pity the drought that killed the crops, 

Hadn't killed the prophet, too." 



196 L. H. BEAL. 

Ood's not so prone in latter days 

To let such have full sway; 
Maybe the god who served those priests, 

Is not the God today. 

Else he the scepter Joshua shared, 

Now claims it all alone, 
And taking it from Charlatans, 

Now wields it as his own. 

Whate'er the cause, there's been great change, 

For now to none 'tis given, 
To stay the planets in their course, 

Or call down fire from Heaven — 

Or make the sun retrace its steps, 

Or calm the oceans tossed, 
Alas! the art of miracles, 

Is now among the lost. 



A TOILER'S RHYME ON THE TRUST 
QUESTION. 

Air: "Kingdom Coming." 

Say, have you seen those big spellbinders, 

With the trust mark on their face, 
Advising us to vote their ticket, 

Or we shall lose our place? 
They fear the Judgment Day is coming, 

And are shaking in their knees, 
They know their stocks will lose their water, 

Then good-bye to the Johnny Ds. 



POEMS. 197 

CHORUS 

They're on the run, ha ha ha ha! 

'Tis sport to see them go ; 
They sprint as though they feared the devil 

Would take them all in tow. 

A while ago they set us napping 

With the song of the "dinner pail," 
But soon we woke to find it empty, 

From the bottom to the bail. 
Protection was their greatest hobby, 

And a most prolific theme, 
But with empty pails we trust no longer 

To a mere hypnotic dream. 

CHORUS 

They're on the run, ha ha ha ha! 

'Tis sport to see them go ; 
They sprint as though they feared the devil 

Would take them all in tow. 

They claim 'twas done for the good of the toiler, 

To ease his toil and cares, 
While they import stilletto Dagos, 

After they've said their prayers. 
We have looked their tariff schedule over, 

All so carefully and slow, 
But never a line have we found there written, 

To prevent them from doing so. 

CHORUS 

They're on the run, ha ha ha ha! 

'Tis sport to see them go ; 
They sprint as though they feared the devil 

Would take them all in tow. 



198 L. H. BEAL. 

We'd have our statutes built on justice, 

And then enforced on the square, 
Nor tax the brawn of the honest toiler, 

All to make the millionaire. 
We want to buy in the open market 

As cheap as you sell to John Bull; 
Give us a chance from start to finish, 

And our pails will then be full. 

CHORUS 

They're on the run, ha ha ha ha! 

'Tis sport to see them go ; 
They sprint as though they feared the devil 

Would take them all in tow. 



CRUMBS OF THOUGHT. 

In the shadow of the twilight, 

I am sitting all alone, 
Thinking of the dear departed, 

Wond'ring whither they have gone. 

And my soul is sunk in sadness 

As in mem'ry I recall 
How they left me sad and lonely, 

At the Reaper's cruel call. 

Now, no more I hear their voices ; 

Nov/, no answer to my call; 
Only at betimes, in fancy, 

From the pictures on the wall. 



POEMS. 199 

Then it seems like beams of sunshine, 

After dreary night of storm; 
Then they seem to smile in answer, 

As they did in earthly form. 

Then I feast upon the fragrance 

Of the flowers they seem to bear, 
Till, alas ! the spell is broken 

And I see but pictures there. 

My last thought till lost in slumber, 

And my first at morning call, — 
Then, I only hear their voices 

In sweet fancy, — that is all. 

Oft I ponder in my musings 

Which to trust, — my wake or dream, 

Each, in turn as they possess me, 
Claim the mast'ry on the theme. 

And with sad paternal yearning 

I must struggle through it all. 
Naught is left me but their pictures, 

Silent there upon the wall. 

Only in sweet mem'ry's chamber, 

Do I hear their footsteps fall, 
Only in the realms of dreamland, 

Do I hear their voices call. 

Sages, delving for life's mystery 
With the prophets, great and small, 

Only find in the endeavor 
Echoed answers to our call. 



200 L. H. BEAL. 

But, 'mid doubts and sad misgivings, 
This one thing I find is true : — 

Some build faith in what they don't know, 
Rather than on what they do. 

Some, with mystic gift subconscious, 

Will explore the dark abyss, 
And discover priceless treasures, 

Which the narrow creedmen miss, 

And, they claim, commune with kindred, 
Who have crossed the mystic tide, 

And bring back a greeting message 
That will cast all doubt aside. 

Be it far from my endeavor 

To becloud a faith like this; 
While self-conscious, I can never 

Spill their cup of promised bliss. 



THE CURBSTONE POLITICIAN. 

Down in the Land of Stirum, where the fakir proph- 
ets rise, 
There thrives the politician with greed of oversize. 

In common business dealings he's honorable and 

square, 
But when it comes to office, he finds the limit there ; 

The office-seeking microbe is seated in his brain, 
With ne'er an antitoxin to make him well again; 



POEMS. 201 

Your Golden Rule quotations against that fellow's 

tricks, 
They swear were ne'er intended for modern politics. 

The creed and faith they swear by will recognize no 

sin, 
Unless they fail in packing the cards so they can 

win. 

The salary fixed by statute — so small they ne'er 

would take it — 
But when the graft is added, it totals what they 

make it; 

There came to stricken Stirum (alas, how time has 

flown) 
A resurrected prophet. This claim is all his own. 

He said he was Elijah, just risen from the dead, 
The very same old prophet the fabled ravens fed. 

We own we half believed it, just as the fellow said, 
His sermons smelled like crow meat for generations 
dead. 

He tented on a hilltop, a barren, sandy dune, 
And madly preached damnation — and it was com- 
ing soon; 

And then he tells his hearers, and dins it rough 

and rash, 
They'll only 'scape damnation by giving him their 

cash. 

We'll give this fellow credit for a most marvelous 

scent, 
To trail the shallow minded and land them in his 

tent. 



202 L. H. BEAL. 

We've diagnosed the fellow and given him his 

rank, — 
A cross betwixt a pirate and a religions crank. 

The politician listened, then slapped himself with 

glee, 
Then welcomed 'Lijah's converts from ev'ry land 

and sea, 

Then fed them well on taffy, as herdsmen do their 

shoats, 
And when it came to election he gathered in their 

votes, 

And then the solemn contract, not writ but under- 
stood, 

They'd work and vote together, all for their mutual 
good. 

And in the sacred contract Elijah has his way 
And rules the school committee as sunlight rules 
the day. 

Then for election favors they heed Elijah's rules 
And hire his trusted converts to teach sectarian 
schools. 

But still the politicians, some humorist has said, 
Will turn to "saints" and "statesmen," as soon as 
they are dead; 

But Stirum has a history and boasts of many a name 
Among the cherished records high on the tower of 
Fame; 

But now, alas! 'tis clouded by misdemeanor rank, 
From wisdom's way it wanders, to serve a mounte- 
bank. 



POEMS. 203 

THINK-SO-PATHY. 

"What stirs the haughty doctor up 
And makes his practice shrink so? 

The Eddy woman who has found 
The Christian Science think-so. 

I broke an egg to make a punch, 

The fragrance made me sad, 
But with the Eddy think-so mixed, 

It made my stomach glad. 

Once in a think-so restaurant, 

"It seems so very queer," 
A glass of water passed to me 

"Was changed to lager beer. 

My hair was gray, my face was spread 

With wrinkles full a score, 
"With think-so tablets I am young 

And handsome as of yore. 

I made my will some years ago, 

I thought I's going sure; 
But things look different now to me, 

All from the think-so cure. 

My sight was getting feeble, and 

I often went astray, 
With think-so oil rubbed on my lids, 

I threw my specs away. 

With cane and crutch I moved about, 

I was so stiff, and lame, 
With think-so treatment 1 am well, 

And sprinting in the game. 



204 L. H. BEAL. 

My memory, I was very sure, 
Some demon had kidnapped, 

With think-so aid I now can tell 
Of haps that never happed. 

So sadly were my teeth decayed, 
I swallowed steak unchewed; 

But soon the think-so grew a set, 
The envy of the dude. 

Talk of your steam and wireless 'phone, 
Your autos, mile a minute, 

Compared with think-so medicine, 
You surely are not in it. 

We've no more use for puke or pill, 
Or for the surgeon's knife; 

The think-so will retire them all 
And banish pain and strife. 



TEDDY'S MULTI-MILLIONAIRE. 

His face is avarice petrified, 
His muscle soft as jelly, 

His greatest pleasure is to heed 
The prompting of his belly. 

He'd be a pillar of the church 
And run a Sunday School; 

His daughter weds a bankrupt "Count," 
His son's a pampered fool. 



POEMS. 205 



His mother was the shameless Trust, 
His father High Protection; 

So we'll consign him to the dust 
At the next Fall election. 



AN INGENIOUS CENTO. 

The word "cento" literally means "patchwork"; 
and centoistic poetry is patchwork poetry formed 
by piecing together bits from different poets in 
order to form an entirely new poem. This was a 
favorite diversion in ancient Greece and Rome, and 
it has been pursued as an amusement ever since. 
The following poem, which appeared anonymously 
some years ago, is one of the most ingenious speci- 
mens of its kind, and is well deserving of preserva- 
tion as a literary curiosity. 

MY LADY LOVE. 

I only knew she came and went [Powell 

Like troutlets in a pool; [Hood 

She was a fantom of delight, [Wordsworth 

And I was like a fool. [Eastman 

One kiss, dear maid, I said, and sighed, [Coleridge 

Out of those lips unshorn; [Longfellow 

She shook her ringlets round her head, [Stoddard 

And laughed in merry scorn. [Tennyson 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, [Tennyson 

You heard them, my heart; [Alice Cary 

'Tis twelve at night by the castle clock, [Coleridge 

Beloved, we must part. [Alice Cary 



206 



L. H. BEAL. 



' ' Come back, come back ! ' ' she cried in grief ; [ Campbell 
"My eyes are dim with tears, [Bayard Taylor 

How shall I live through all the days? [Osgood 

All through a hundred years?" [T. S. Perry 



'Twas in the prime of summer-time 
She blessed me with her hand; 

We strayed together, deeply blest, 
Into the dreaming land. 

The laughing bridal roses blow, 
To dress her dark-brown hair ; 

My heart is breaking with my woe, 
Most beautiful, most rare ! 

I clasped it on her sweet, cold hand, 

The precious golden link ! 
I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 

"Drink, pretty creature, drink." 

And so I won my Genevieve, 

And walked in Paradise; 
The fairest thing that ever grew 

Atween me and the skies. 



[Hood 

[Hoyt 

[Edwards 

[Cornwall 

[Patmore 

[Bayard Taylor 

[Tennyson 

[Read 

[Browning 

[Smith 

[Coleridge 

[Wordsworth 

[Coleridge 

[Hervey 

[Wordsworth 

[Osgood 



CONSCIENCE AND FUTURE JUDGMENT. 



I sat alone with my conscience 

In a place where time had ceased, 
And we talked of my former living 

In the land where the years increased; 
And I felt I should have to answer 

The questions it put to me, 
And to face the question and answer 

Throughout the eternity. 



POEMS. 207 

The ghosts of forgotten actions 

Came floating before my sight, 
And the things that I thought were dead things 

Were alive with terrible might; 
And the vision of all my past life 

Was an awful thing to face, 
Alone with my conscience, sitting 

In that solemnly silent place. 

And I thought of a far-away warning 

Of a sorrow that was to be mine, 
In a land that then was the Future 

But now is the present time. 

And I thought of my former thinking 

Of the Judgment day to be, 
But sitting alone with my conscience 

Seemed judgment enough for me. 
And I wondered if there was a future 

For myself beyond the grave, 
But no one gave me an answer 

And no one came to save. 

Then I felt that the future was the present 

And the present would go by, 
For it was the thoughts of past life 

Grown to Eternity. 
Then I woke from my timely dreaming 

And the vision passed away, 
And I knew the far-away warning 

Was a warning of yesterday. 

And I pray that I may not forget it 

In this life before the grave, 
That I may not cry in the future 

And no one come to save. 



208 



L. H. BEAL. 



This vision has taught me a lesson 
Which I ought to have known before, 

Although I have learned it while dreaming, 
I hope to forget it no more. 

So I sit alone with my conscience 

In the place where the years increase, 

And I try to remember the Future 
In the land where time shall cease. 

And I know of the future Judgment, 

How dreadfully real it be, 
When I sit and commune with my conscience 

It is judgment enough for me. 

— Selected. 



SAD CASE OF "OBSESSION. 

Let me tell you of a woman, 

Of & model very rare, 
Ever kindly and obliging, 

Giving more than duty's share. 

Years of sorrow and misfortune 
Leave no traces of a blight, 

But she smiles as blithe and gaily, 
As upon her bridal night. 

Tell me, ye mystic powers, 
Tell the secret of your sway, 

What conjunction of the planets 
Ruled this woman's natal day? 



POEMS. 209 

Was it some erratic comet 

Lost from the celestial trail, 
With a head of small dimension 

Measured by its ponderous tail? 

For her ways are enigmatic 

From what seems inherent bent, 
Quite outside of what is proper, 

Measured by the world's consent. 

Rank flirtation is the passion 

Which dbsorbes her very soul, 
Other talents are all dormant 

Under its supreme control. 

May it not be an obsession? 

But it seems so very queer 
That a spirit dead for ages 

Shapes a living one's career. 

Did it reign a queen or duchess 

In some ancient Babylon, 
One who answered death's grim summons, 

Ere repentant prayers had won? 

Yes, obsession and that only, 

Can explain this woman's art, 
While she plies her bold vocation 

To ensnare a victim's heart. 

Some vile hag escaped from Hades, 

Steathly found its way to earth, 
Took possession of our subject 

At the moment of its birth. 



210 L. H. BEAL. 

She seemed healthy, strong and hearty 
And her life was all serene. 

With no symptoms of obsession, 
Till she was about fifteen. 

Then came on the indications, 
Striving 'gainst the moral sense, 

Scouting all paternal precepts, 
By its shocking virulence. 

It was fondly hoped that marriage 
Would relax the demon's hold; 

But, alas ! the kind endeavor 
Only made it doubly bold. 

For she flirted worse than ever 

With her eyes, her lips and tongue, 

Yankee, Irish, French or Dutchman, 
Old and wrinkled, green and young. 

Lawyers, Doctors, Priests and Laymen, 
Jew or Gentile met by chance, 

These and more her lips have sampled, 
Anything in coat and pants. 

Bye and bye she got religion, 

For a handsome man besought her, 

Saved her soul by timely help of 
Androscoggin's cleansing water. 

Still she flirted worse than ever, 
Spite the cleansing of her soul, 

But there was a pious flavor 
On the kisses that she stole. 



POEMS. • 211 

Constant at the Sunday service 
Bowed her head in prayer so meek, 

Then would serve the flesh and devil 
The remainder of the week. 

But she died at last repentant, 

So the worthy parson said, 
Happy thoughts our sins and follies 

Are forgotten when we're dead. 

But of us who dare upbraid her 

In the inmost of our soul, 
She would flirt for she was forced to 

By the demon in control. 

Let us mildly judge the erring, 

If by chance they drift away; 
Kightly born and wisely tutored, 

They would seldom go astray. 



JIM BECOMES A SCIENTIST. 

We often hear some people talk 

Of Nature and her laws, 
And some are fools enough to think 

Effect will follow cause. 

In this wide world there's no such thing 

As misery and woe ; 
If things seem wrong it is because 

We only think 'tis so. 



212 L. H. BEAL. 

Whene'er I seem to have a cough, 

Pneumonia or chills, 
A page from Mrs. Eddy's book 

Will quickly cure my ills. 

And come to read it thru and thru, 

Its pages surely show 
I ne'er was sick in all my life — 

I only thought 'twas so. 

The old gray mare seemed mighty lame, 
Could scarcely move a peg, 

She had a ringbone on her foot, 
A spavin on her leg. 

But since I've joined the Scientists 
You ought to see her go ; 

When this I whisper in her ear, 
"You only think 'tis so." 

Now in the good old summer time 

How happy I shall be, 
Perched in the hammock on the green, 

Beneath a shady tree. 

No more I'll hunt potato bugs. 

The corn I will not hoe ; 
Such things no more will bother me, 

I only thought 'twas so. 

Thus like the lilies of the field 
I'll neither toil nor spin, 

For those who work, like busy bees, 
Get sadly taken in. 



POEMS. 213 

Faith like a grain of mustard seed 
Will move a mount, you know; 

The great canal is now complete 
If we but think 'tis so. 

—J. P. Beal. 



DISSIMULATION. 

Whatever purpose you avow, 

Be honest in revealing, 
For honor never will allow 

A language half concealing. 

For language is a gift sublime 

Vouchsafed to only human, 
But often has since Eden's time 

Betrayed both man and woman. 

Who juggles with the gift of speech 

Is but a moral gambler, 
And would a false impression teach 

With tricks of the dissembler. 

In thinking of the many who 

Would count a lie most shocking, 

Then straightway teach that black is blue 
To listen to their talking. 

haste the good time coming round 
As right the wrong shall fetter 

When we by sense much more than sound 
Shall know each other better. 



214 L. H. BEAL. 

THE FLIRT. 

Young man, I have your good in view, 

Nor do I want you hurt, 
But she that just now smiled on you 

Is but a heartless flirt. 

For she has suitors full a score, 
(Now I'm not counting you), 

But still she's on the hunt for more, 
And all for revenue. 

Her victims are of every age, 
From youth to wrinkled gray; 

And when she misses one to cage, 
'Tis an unlucky day. 

To countrymen with honest mien, 
And hayseed in their hair, 

She plays the part of virtue's queen, 
'Til they are in the snare. 

And then before you*are aware, 
You'll find yourself entangled; 

Your inside pocket nearly bare, 
Your reputation mangled. 

The scalps of men of every trade, 
Are dangling from her belt ; 

While of professors bald of head, 
She boasts of many a pelt. 

For pensioners of Uncle Sam 
She wears her sweetest smile; 

To muddle them with pleasures drachm 
And take their cash the while. 



POEMS. 215 

The world is full of tempters, who 

Would glory in your fall! 
But this one that would shadow you 

Is master of them all. 

Beware, my friend, I say beware, 

Excuse the bold obtrusion. 
I only wish yourself to spare 

A terrible delusion. 



THE POPULIST STOPS HIS GOLD STANDARD 
PAPER THUSLY. 

As the only "honest money" 
Must be coined of virgin gold, 
To discharge an obligation, 

Which you have so often told. 

You will have to stop my paper, 
'Tis the proper thing to do, 

For I've got no such a dollar, 
To pay creditors like you. 

Now if I remember rightly, 
When I paid you paper, gents, 

I gave you a silver dollar, 
Worth, you say, but fifty cents. 

Still I think by just equation, 
You are in an awkward fix, 
You discount my silver dollar, 
I discount your politics. 



216 L. H. BEAL. 

FASHION. 

What a tyrant is Fashion 

In these latter times; 
Its burdens are cruel, 

Its edicts are crimes; 
No matter how worthy, 

Industrious or brave, 
Its subjects are tortured 

From cradle to grave. 

Who questions its purpose, 

Or dares to rebel, 
Is doomed, without mercy, 

To fathomless hell. 
Uprightness of purpose 

'Thout shadow or guile 
Is nothing compared 

With being in style. 

To follow its teachings 

Makes life so forlorn, 
We often in anguish 

Curse the day we were born. 
It cripples the father 

With burdens for life ; 
Makes fools of the children 

And a slave of the wife; 

Birth, marriage and death 

Untimely are made, 
And all for burdens 

This monster has laid. 
How we long for a Moses 

To lead us from hence, 
To a land where the fashion 

Is straight common sense. 



POEMS. 217 

THE SCANDALMONGER. 

Up in the town of Bedlamville, 

(A godless territory), 
There dwells a blear eyed Jezebel, 

The subject of my story. 

Such mischief making ne'er was seen 

This side of Hades' border. 
Her tongue is run as a machine, 

For scandal made to order. 

Long years ago she had a beau, 

A somewhat reckless feller, 
But why he quit she does not know, 

For he would never tell her. 

In mischief foul she doth defy 

The true instincts of woman ; 
And only lives to magnify 

The evil in the human. 

Should trouble come 'twixt man and wife, 

She is the first to know it. 
Why she should mix in such a strife, 

Would puzzle e'en a poet. 

"What she can steal from "family jar" 

Keeps soul and flesh together. 
To spread such scandal near and far, 

It costs her much for leather. 

But there's a use for even dirt — 
Though overmuch might hurt you — 

So a mild dose of scandalwort 
May help a torpid virtue. 



218 L. H. BEAL. 

SCENE IN A PAWNSHOP. 

The night before last Christmas day, 

He came into the store, 
"Where goods are pawned, or bought, or sold 

Which have been sold before, 

The demon drink was in his breath, 

The blear was in his eyes; 
His coat was patched and badly torn, 

His pants and vest, likewise. 

Another coat upon his arm, 

Might be his Sunday dress, 
Which he was anxious there to pawn, 

For fifty cents or less. 

The Israelite put on his specs, 

And looked the garment o'er; 
Wliat he could get for fifty cents, 

Was worth five dollars more. 

Then glanced above his specs, and gave 

The man a searching look; 
For he could read a customer 

As scholars read a book. 

Then mildly did he speak, but firm, 
" Don't for a moment think 
That I w r ould take advantage of 
A man when crazed by drink. 

"I will not take your coat at all, 

At any price you say, 
You'll need the same to wear yourself, 

Tomorrow's Christmas. day. 



POEMS. 219 

"Go home, my man. and sober off, 

And when you get all right, 
You'll thank me from your heart, for what 

I have refused tonight." 

I may be wrong for having called 

This man an Israelite; 
Whate'er his race or creed may be, 

I know his soul is white. 

And when we gather at the gate 

At Gabriel's trumpet blast, 
There'll be a tumult in the Fold 

Unless he's promptly passed. 



TO MY BROTHER, HONEST JIM. 

Once I had an only brother, 

They all called him "Honest Jim"; 

Since he went to Massachusetts 
Not a word have I from him. 

Whether home he ever landed 
I've no means at hand to tell; 

Was he lost upon the passage 

And has found a job in Hallo well? 

Or maybe he has forgotten 

All about his "down east" life, 

Or perhaps some nymphomaniac 
Has engaged him in a strife. 



220 L. H. BEAL. 

Anyway there must be something — 

What it is I can't explain — 
"Which prevents his promised writing 

To his brother down in Maine. 

Maybe Jim is out of paper, 

Or perhaps he's got no ink, 
Something dreadful sure has happened; 

How I worry when I think. 

Has he used his last envelope? 

More than likely out of stamps; 
Then the boss-man may have bounced him, 
And he's joined the corps of tramps. 

Wake up, brother, what's the matter? 

Brush your coat and black your shoes, 
Soon you've got to sign the "voucher," 

Else go 'thout your pension dues. 

Oft I fear your mind is hazy 

And you're off your mental base, 

But perhaps you've got too lazy 

Sluggish thoughts with pen to trace. 

Summer's past and autumn's with us, 
With the sere and yellow leaf; 

And the corn, the beans and pumpkins ^ 
Planted late will come to grief; 

Now camp-meeting days are booming, 

Ministers are waxing fat, 
But when "Honest Jim" confronts them 

They can't tell "where they are at"; 



POEMS. 221 

Now is Quaker quarterly meeting 

Different what it used to be ; 
Only way to know a Quaker 

Is to trace his pedigree. 

When a boy how oft we likened 

Sermons to old, squeaking pumps, 
But to day their lively music 

Takes the place of gospel dumps; 

Then to torture human nature, 

Suffer all without complaint, 
Was the only way a sinner 

Ever could become a saint. 

Yes, they've really got an organ 

On the elders' facing seat, 
And they sing like other people 

As the service they complete. 

"What a change, Jim, since our boyhood? — 

Rhyme it all I can't begin — 
When to whistle "Yankee-Doodle" 

Shocked the Quaker discipline. 

You remember how they taught us 

(Gracious, how they rubbed it in) 
Whate'er gave us joy or pleasure 

Was the soul's destroying sin. 

Quaker preachers now are salaried, 

If such worthy can be found, 
But when you and I were young, Jim, 

They all had to board around. 



222 L. H. BEAL. 

Has there nothing lately happened 
In your place to comment on, 

Murder, scandal or elopement, 
Or have hoodlums all withdrawn? 

Draw upon imagination, 

Fruitful source of fresh supply, 

And the story will be relished 
Though we know 'tis all a lie. 

There is nothing like a fable 

To adorn a moral tale, 
It will stir the sluggish passion 

Where the simple truth will fail. 

Write to me again once more, Jim, 
Fact or fable you may spin; 

Prose or verse, or both together, 
Seize your pen and wade right in; 

Take your time and do not hurry, 
Greatest fun you ever saw, 

One of us will take the ribbon, 
Though I hope 'twill be a draw. 



SANDFORD'S SANDY SUMMIT. 

Sandford's sandy summits spouting, 
Saving sinners, singing, shouting; 
Swiftly slinging solid stones, 
Straightaway striking Satan's sons. 
Stiffly starched, smoothly shaved, 
Seeking shekels snugly saved; 



POEMS. 223 

Somewhat smoothly setting suit, 
Sisters sweet sometimes salute. 
Shifting sands, scorching sun 
Sandford's "students" seldom shun; 
Sunday sermons skyward scaling, 
Sending Satan seaward sailing. 
Sickening swine, scaring sheep, 
Surrounding settlers seldom sleep; 
Scalping Swede, scoring Swiss, 
Soaping "sonny" soothing "sis"; 
Some sarcastic story stating, 
Societies soon separating, 
Surely sin should soon subside, 
Sandford shall be satisfied. 

—J. P. Beal. 



THE DOCTOR AND HIS TWIN DAUGHTERS. 

(A Reminiscence of Bygone Days) 

Our family doctor, in the bygone days, 
Was a man of renown and worthy of praise, 
A lineal descendant of the God serving flock, 
Which landed in Plymouth, on the historic rock. 
He got his diploma from the regular school, 
And hung out his shingle according to rule. 
Located in Lisbon, a town of some trade, 
And soon was the "monarch of all he surveyed." 
He was stern in his manner; severe, some might say, 
But genial and social when he had his own way. 
Orthodox in religion and a straight Allopath, 
Who would thwart his endeavor would suffer his 
wrath. 



224 L. H. BEAL. 

But to get down to business and mayhap to glory, 

The doctor's twin daughters are the pith of my story. 

The pedantic naturalist often has stated 

That absolute duplicates are never created. 

But he'd promptly revise the lesson he's taught us, 

Could he see and converse with the doctor's twin 

daughters. 
Their name to each other is ''Sister" — no more, 
A word that is precious on ocean and shore. 
"So exactly alike," in wonder we ask, 
"Did Nature ever finish another such task?" 
And humorous mistakes quite often are made 
By even their friends, in sunshine or shade. 
The doctor would guard them, as all fathers should, 
From unworthy suitors and all of their brood. 
In devotional moods the doctor would pray 
That his daughters be kept in the straight, narrow 

way; 
With his mental X-Ray and his soul-testing bevel, 
He'd see that their hearts with their heads were kept 

level. 

Myself and a shop-mate, unconscious of sins, 
Concluded, one evening, to call on the twins. 
We chatted, as usual, of parties and schools, 
Unaware of the limit of the martinet's rules, 
Till the clock counted "Nine," when at the last 

stroke 
The kitchen door opened and thusly he spoke : 
"Young gentlemen callers, if you'd stay through the 

night, 
We'll show you your chamber and give you a light." 
Myself and companion, like terrorized rats. 
Sprang from the soft cushions and grabbing out hats, 
Like convicts we sprinted to Durham's glad shore. 



POEMS. 225 

Resolving forever we'd do so no more. 
But the story got out, as such stories will ; 
Whenever we heard it we suffered a chill. 
How often I ponder the Now and the Then, 
And of a Maud Muller's, ''It might have been"; 
But 'tis all for the better, spite the fizzle and clatter, 
The " twins'* were well married and myself, — well, 
no matter. 



inttl} of iMtsa lertlja Seal 



The death of Miss Bertha Beal at her home on 
Upper College street, Wednesday, removes from 
our midst an artist of no small talent. Miss Beal 
was entirely self taught, yet the painting of the 
home farm at Durham, her flower and fruit pieces 
and her crayon of her mother are only a few of the 
monuments to her talent. Since she was obliged on 
account of her health to give up teaching she has 
been retouching photographs and for a long time has 
done the work at home. Her last work was a crayon 
of her mother and it was framed just two days 
before the artist's death. 

Miss Beal was born in Poland, 39 years ago, 
graduated from the course as it then was arranged, 
of the Lisbon Falls High School and taught in Dur- 
ham, where her childhood and all of her life pre- 
vious to 14 years ago was spent. She was a sister 
to the late Alice Beal, who was a graduate of Bates 
College, and a young lady of great promise. Her 
brother Parker was also a graduate of Bates. Miss 
Bertha's own health did not permit of a college 
course; but she kept up to quite an extent with 
them in her studies. 

Miss Beal was charmingly original in her ideas. 
Having been an invalid for years and quite ill the 



last year, she knew that she must go; and she said 
to her family, "Let me have my flowers now and 
don't wait until I am dead." And they gave her 
flowers and two large bouquets of hot house blooms 
were on the tables at the time of her death. Again 
having a letter from a friend as to her fitness for 
death and her concern for her soul's welfare, Miss 
Beal copied some verses of Whittier's ''Eternal 
Goodness," in reply, and among them was this one: 

"I know not where his islands lift 

Their fronded palms in air; 
I only know I cannot drift 

Beyond His love and care." 

Miss Beal leaves her parents, Mr. and Mrs. L. H. 
Beal, and one brother, P. P. Beal. 

The funeral will be held at the house, 349 College 
street, this afternoon at 2 o'clock, Prof. Hayes 
officiating. 



S?atlj of Parker Sral 



From the Lisbon Enterprise 

(Died April 19, 1901). 

In the death of Parker Beal, which occurred at 
his home in Durham the latter part of last week 
and which was briefly noted in these columns last 
week, the community loses a stalwart young man 
and one who was endowed with commendable char- 
acteristics. 

The deceased was born at Poland, Me., in th<? 
year 1865. He attended High School in this village 
for several years, and after he had graduated he 
entered the Latin School at Lewiston, preparatory 
to entering Bates College. In '87 he entered Bates 
and from here he graduated in '91. While at Bates 
he won many prizes for his proficiency in English 
composition. Subsequently he taught school for a 
number of years with much success. 

Pie had prepared himself for the ministry and 
was a licensed preacher, but owing to ill health and 
shattered nerves, he was deterred from following 
his chosen profession, but had to resort to out-door 
labor. 

Last fall he went AVest in hopes to recuperate in 
health, but the change of climate seemed not to 
bring the desired results and Mr. Beal returned to 



his native state this spring, still in failing, health. 

He was the only surviving child and was all the 
more beloved by his parents because of this. He 
was quite a gifted writer, as many of our readers 
well know from reading the articles from his pen 
which appeared from time to time in these columns. 

The funeral services were held from his late home 
in Durham, Sunday last, Prof. Hayes of Bates Col- 
lege officiating. The remains were interred in Oak 
Hill cemetery, Auburn. 



Sratlj nf Mxbb Altn> A. !i>al 



The End of a Pure and Useful Life — A Graduate 
and Valedictorian at Bates. 



Miss Alice Anthony Beal died on AYednesdaj^ even- 
ing, at the home of her parents, 349 College street. 
Thus death terminates the earthly part of a life 
that had seemed to have ever brighter and brighter 
prospects opening before it, until it was learned that 
consumption had cast its fatal blight upon her. 

Miss Beal was born in Brunswick, Me. Her 
parents resided for several years in Durham, near 
Lisbon Falls. At the High School at the latter place 
she commenced her preparation for college. The 
last year of her preparation was taken at the Latin 
School, at the close of which she entered Bates Col- 
lege, and graduated as valedictorian in June, 1891 r 
shortly after completing the 21st year of her age. 
Miss Beal possessed not a few of the characteristics 
of genius. 

Beginning college life as a skeptic in regard to 
Christianity, she graduated a believer in its excel- 
lence and its divine origin. Besides being leader of 
her class in many branches of study, and a very 
facile writer, she took great interest in physical 



culture, and was for two years leader of the exer- 
cises of the lady students in the gymnasium. At 
her graduation she was elected as one of the teachers 
in the High School at Putnam, Connecticut. Before 
the end of the year she was invited to a better posi- 
tion in the High School in Dover, N. H. Here her 
success was marked from the first and continuous. 
The time, between one and two years, passed in 
Dover was evidently the happiest of her earthly 
years. During this time she was baptised and re- 
ceived into the Washington street Free Baptist 
church of that city, and formed many warm friend- 
ships among its people. When the school year 
closed in the summer of 1893 she was expected to 
return in September to begin the next school year 
on an increased salary. But when the time came 
she found her next business must be a death-grapple 
with consumption, and she turned her course toward 
Southern California to wage in its valleys and on 
its mountains a brave fight for life. Her corres- 
pondence at that time published in the "Journal" 
many readers will recall. Having become satisfied 
at length that however held at bay, her enemy would 
not let its hold be loosened, she returned home last 
summer, calmly to await the end. 

Life had not ceased to be dear, nor the prospect 
of its work inviting, but she saw plainly that they 
were not now for her and she surrendered not with- 
out regrets, but without a murmur, and with hope 
and reliance on the promise that God had "prepared 
some better thing" for her. And this confidence did 
not forsake her but increased unto the moment when 
she said to her friends, "The end has come," and 
the end was peace. 



JAN 5 ^ 10 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



